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THE    BARD 


OF 


Mary  Redcliffe 


BY 

ERNEST    LACY 


ILLUSTRATED  AUTOGRAPLI  EDITION 


PRINTED  BY 

SHERMAN   AND   COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA 
I9IO 


Copyright,    1910,  by 
ERNEST  LACY 


To 

THE  MEMORY   OF   MY   BROTHER. 

WILLIAM, 
This  Book  is  Dedicated 


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Beware  !  beware 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  / 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread j 
For  he  on  honey -dew  hath  fed 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. — Kubla  Khan. 


(v) 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The  North  Porch  of  Mary  Redcliffe,     .     .  Frontispiece 
The   Tomb   of  William    Canynge   in    the    South 

Transept, 5 

Steep  Street, 63 

The  Old  Fox  Inn, 87 

Chatterton  {From  the  Painting  by  Henry  JVat/is),   166 


(vii) 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Thomas  Chatterton,  the  Bard  of  Mary  Redcliffe. 

Richard  Phillips,  his  uncle,  Sexton  of  Mary  Redcliffe. 

Thomas  Phillips,  an  usher  in  the  Colston  School. 

Mrs.  Chatterton,  the  Poet's  mother. 

Mary  Chatterton,  her  daughter. 

Henry  Burgum,  a  wealthy  pewterer. 

Bertha  Burgum,  his  daughter. 

James  Thistlethwaite,  a  teacher  in  the  Colston  School. 

Thomas  Broughton,  the  Vicar  of  Mary  Redcliffe. 

John    Lambert,  an   attorney   to   whom   Chatterton   is 

bound. 
Mrs.  Lambert,  his  mother. 
Sam,  his  footboy. 
Alice, 
Betty, 
Dorothy, 
Agnes, 

Alexander  Catcott,  the  Vicar  of  Temple  Church. 
George  Catcott,  his  brother. 
William  Barrett,  a  surgeon. 

(«) 


girls  in  Bristol. 


persons  IRepresenteo 

Horace  Walpole,  son  of  the  former  Prime  Minister  of 

England. 
Thomas  Harris,  the  Mayor  of  Bristol. 
Captain  Francisco,  a  highwayman. 
Monsieur  Barthelemon,  the  leader  of  the  band  in  the 

Gardens. 
Mrs.  Angell,  the  keeper  of  a  lodging-house. 
Harry  Angell,  her  son,  ten  years  of  age. 
Bertha  Angell,  her  daughter,  six  years  of  age. 

Street-criers ;  a  gingerbread-man,  a  flower-girl,  mum- 
mers and  spectators  ;  first  gentleman,  second  gentle- 
man, first  girl,  second  girl,  other  patrons  of  Mary- 
lebone  Gardens,  and  gods  and  goddesses  in  the 
burletta. 

Scenes  :  Bristol  and  London.  Time  :  From  the  middle 
of  April  to  the  latter  part  of  August,  1 770. 


(*) 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  THE  CHARACTERS. 


Thomas  Chatterton, 

the  Bard  of  Mary  Redcliffe,  though  not  yet  eighteen 
years  of  age,  is  as  mature  in  body  as  he  is  in  mind.  He 
is  medium-sized,  strong  and  agile  ;  his  mouth  is  large  ; 
his  nose  straight ;  his  forehead  high  ;  his  auburn  hair 
long  and  flowing.  His  gray  eyes,  one  of  which  is  more 
brilliant  than  the  other,  are  remarkable  for  the  fire  roll- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  them — a  fire  sometimes  seen  in 
black  eyes,  but  not  in  gray  ones.  His  motions,  like  his 
words,  are  sudden  and  swift,  indicating  the  immediate 
passing. of  thought  into  action. 

Richard  Phillips, 

his  uncle  and  Sexton  of  Mary  Redcliffe,  is  lean,  grizzly, 
and  wrinkled.  Were  he  to  stand  erect,  he  would  be 
taller  than  the  average  man,  but  grave-digging  has 
stooped  his  shoulders  and  robbed  him  of  a  foot  in 
height.  His  slow  steps  seem  timed  to  the  movement 
of  a  dirge,  his  downcast  eyes  suggest  walking  over  sepul- 
chral brasses,  and  his  hushed  voice  whispers  of  long 
comradeship  with  the  dead. 


descriptions  ot  tbe  Cbaracters 

Thomas  Phillips, 

an  usher  in  the  Colston  School,  is  in  his  twenty -sixth 
year.  He  is  homely  in  the  word's  twofold  sense  :  his 
form  is  meagre  and  awkward  ;  his  hair  is  scant ;  his 
features  are  irregular ;  but  his  large  brown  eyes  have  a 
fireside  glow  that  radiates  happiness  to  others,  and  he 
leaves  the  impression  of  his  being  a  big  man — a  rudely- 
hewn  foundation  rock,  underground,  on  which  the 
loftiest  spire  could  rest. 

Mrs.  Chatterton, 

the  Poet's  mother,  is  a  plain,  primitive  little  woman, 
with  flaxen  hair  streaked  with  white,  and  a  countenance 
of  the  ordinary  type.  In  person  and  even  in  a  trick  of 
tone,  she  resembles  Thomas  as  a  painter's  first  sketch 
resembles  his  finished  work.  Unreasoning  love,  with 
its  faith  and  anxiety,  beams  from  her  face  ;  and,  while 
her  son  is  speaking,  she  gazes  at  him  with  eyes  as  full  of 
wonder  as  is  the  proverbial  hen  when  she  sees  the  gos- 
ling she  has  hatched  disporting  in  a  pond. 

Mary  Chatterton, 

her  daughter,  is  a  spirited  girl,  two  years  older  than  the 
Poet.     She  is  somewhat  taller  than  her  mother,  and  is 
(xii  ) 


Descriptions  of  tbe  Characters 

possessed  of  a  symmetrical  figure,  brown  curling  hair, 
and  gleaming  black  eyes,  in  which  a  strange  light  flits 
at  times,  vanishing  like  Will-o'-the-wisp.  She  is,  the 
gossips  say,  the  image  of  her  departed  father. 

Henry  Burgum, 
a  wealthy  pewterer,  is  in  middle  life,  burly  and  bluster- 
ing. Physically,  he  is  a  second  Dr.  Johnson  without 
the  marks  of  scrofula  or  learning.  Ignorant,  pompous, 
and  ungainly  as  he  is,  however,  he  excites  an  amused 
tolerance,  which,  one  feels,  might  pass  into  a  phase  of 
affection,  if,  by  the  beating  of  tam-tams,  the  imp  of 
arrogance  could  be  expelled  from  his  inflated  chest. 

Bertha  Burgum, 
his  daughter,  is,  perhaps,  of  some  ancestral  mould.  One 
year  younger  than  Chatterton,  she  has  those  dewy 
charms  of  form  clustering  round  the  word,  girlish.  Her 
features  are  small  and  regular,  her  rippling  hair  is  of  a 
golden  tint,  and  her  eyes  are  of  the  deepest  blue. 
Ethereal  she  might  be  called,  were  it  not  that,  when 
deeply  moved,  her  cheeks  flush,  her  bosom  heaves,  and 
her  voice  trembles  till  reassured  by  its  own  sound,  and 
then  it  flows  with  nervous  force.  A  Saxon  beauty  she 
is  to  her  lover — the  embodiment  of  Bertha  in  his 
tragedy  of  *  JElla. ' 

(  xiii  ) 


2>escrtpttons  ot  tbe  Gbaracters 

James  Thistlethwaite, 
a  teacher  in  the  Colston  School,  is  in  his  early  twenties. 
He  is  swarthy  in  hue  and  diminutive  in  size ;  but  his 
frame  prefigures  corpulence,  as  his  hair  betokens  bald- 
ness in  old  age.  His  broad  forehead,  his  twinkling 
black  eyes,  and  his  shapely  nose  lend,  to  the  upper  part 
of  his  face,  a  benign  expression,  which  is  contradicted 
by  the  ugly  mouth  and  the  heavy  jaws  below.  He  smiles 
constantly,  chuckles  good-naturedly  as  he  talks,  and 
habitually  places  his  arm  on  the  shoulders  of  friend  or 
foe.  Eternal  activity  on  the  fruitful  surface  of  affairs, 
however,  is  indicated  by  an  endless  glide  of  words 
uttered  in  a  nasal  tone. 

Thomas  Broughton, 
the  Vicar  of  Mary  Redcliffeand  author  of  '  An  Histori- 
cal Dictionary  of  all  Religions  from  the  Creation  of  the 
World  to  this  Present  Time,'  is  a  tall,  handsome  man 
in  the  prime  of  life.  His  complexion  is  olive ;  his  hair 
and  eyes  match  the  colour  of  his  clerical  garb ;  his 
every  gesture  is  studied,  for  he  stalks  before  a  mirror  in 
his  mind  ;  and  his  attitude,  even  while  sitting,  is  stiff 
and  upright,  as  if  he  had  an  unbending  creed  for  a  back- 
bone. His  voice  is  clear,  cold,  and  incisive,  like  that 
of  the  accusing  angel,  and  proclaims  that  the  episode  of 
(xiv) 


Descriptions  of  tbe  Cbaracters 

scourging  the  changers  from  the  temple  is,  to  him,  the 
whole  of  sacred  history. 

John  Lambert, 

an  attorney  to  whom  Chatterton  is  bound,  is  a  wiry, 
irritable,  prosaic  snip  of  a  man,  evidently  afraid  of  his 
own  shadow.  His  skin  is  as  yellow  as  parchment ;  his 
pale  eyes,  with  inflamed  lids,  show  red ;  and  his  fore- 
head, cheeks,  and  chin  converge  toward  the  point  of  his 
nose.  He  is,  indeed,  a  human  ferret  that  would,  with 
equal  unction,  dislodge  a  rat  from  its  hole  or  a  rabbit 
from  its  burrow. 

Mrs.  Lambert, 

his  mother,  is  a  thin  old  woman,  thin  in  every  wise — 
thin  body,  thin  hair,  thin  cheeks,  thin  nose,  thin  lips, 
thin  voice,  and  a  thin  soul  that  conceives  Providence  to 
be  as  thin  as  itself. 

Sam, 

Lambert's  footboy  and  Chatterton's  bedfellow,  is  a 
blowzy  youth,  with  bristling  hair,  a  turned-up  nose,  and 
a  puckered  mouth.  His  constant  stretching  and  yawn- 
ing show  that  sleep  is  his  ambition — an  ambition 
strengthened,  perhaps,  by  his  chum's  nightly  inspira- 
tions. 

(XV) 


Descriptions  of  tbe  Cbaracters 

Alice,  Betty,  Dorothy,  and  Agnes, 
girls  in  Bristol,  are  all  in  the  witching  teens.  Alice  is  a 
stately  blonde,  gravely  sensitive ;  Betty,  a  tiny  brunette, 
charmingly  silly.  Dorothy  is  plump  and  Agnes  slender ; 
but  both  are  of  the  usual  height,  both  have  brown  hair 
and  blue  eyes,  and  both  are  romantically  sentimental. 

Alexander  Catcott, 
the  Vicar  of  Temple  Church  and  author  of  '  A  Treatise 
on  the  Deluge, '  is  a  spare  old  gentleman,  with  a  cracked 
voice  and  a  shuffling  gait.  His  lamp-bleached  face  is 
set  with  watery-blue  eyes,  is  slit  with  a  purple-lipped 
mouth,  and  is  provided  with  a  long,  pointed  nose  that 
suggests  poking  into  antiquated  rubbish.  His  sparse, 
white  hair,  falling  over  his  cheeks,  adds  to  his  kindly 
expression,  and  completes  the  illusion  that  he  has  just 
stepped  out  of  the  ark. 

George  Catcott, 
his  brother,  is  his  junior  by  fifteen  years.  There  is, 
indeed,  a  faint  family -likeness,  but  it  defies  analysis ; 
for  George  is  shorter  and  stouter  than  the  Vicar,  his 
eyes  are  darker,  his  nose  is  small  and  reddened  at  the 
tip,  his  mouth  is  capacious,  and  his  voice  is  harsh  and 
explosive.  In  brief,  his  looks  and  his  manners  harmonise 
(xvi) 


descriptions  of  tbe  Cbaracters 

with  his  habit  of  sputtering  his  decrees  in  an  ale-house, 
and  boasting  that  he  climbed  St.  Nicholas  steeple  and  left 
a  pewter  record  of  his  daring  under  the  topmost  stone. 

William  Barrett, 
a  surgeon  and  author  of  'The  History  and  Antiquities  of 
the  City  of  Bristol,'  is  lanky,  athletic,  and  featured  like 
a  Roman.  Here,  however,  the  semblance  ends.  A 
keen  observer  would  soon  note  that  the  antiquarian  has 
learning  without  culture  and  boldness  without  courage, 
and  would  rate  him  as  a  weak,  sensitive  man  that  might 
be  killed  by  criticism  hostile  to  his  book. 

Horace  Walpole, 
son  of  the  former  Prime  Minister  of  England,  is  fifty- 
three  years  old,  short  and  slender,  but  compact  and 
neatly  made.  His  complexion  is  of  an  unhealthy  pale- 
ness; his  eyes  are  very  dark  and  lively;  his  wig  is  un- 
powdered,  combed  straight  and  queued  behind ;  his 
voice  is  low  and  musical,  but  his  laugh  is  forced  and  un- 
couth, and  even  his  smile  is  unpleasant.  He  walks  with 
affected  delicacy — knees  bent  and  feet  on  tip-toe,  as  if 
afraid  of  a  wet  floor — and  never  wears  a  hat,  but  carries 
it  under  his  arm  or  between  his  hands,  as  if  he  wished 
to  compress  it. — \_Taken  from  contemporaneous  descrip- 
tions of  Walpole. ~\ 

(  x™  ) 


Descriptions  of  tbe  Gbaracters 

Thomas  Harris, 

the  Mayor  of  Bristol,  is  in  the  belly-god  period  of  ex- 
istence— too  young  to  be  scared  into  reformation,  and 
too  old  to  be  lured  into  active  vice.  His  huge  feet,  his 
stocky  legs,  his  fat  jowls,  and  his  ponderous  paunch 
make  him  appear  squat,  though,  in  reality,  he  is  rather 
tall.  His  large,  round  head — with  beady  eyes,  flat  nose, 
and  expansive  mouth — flaunts  a  shock  of  coarse,  black 
hair ;  and  his  bushy  eyebrows,  while  he  speaks  or  chews, 
wave  up  and  down  like  the  wings  of  hovering  vultures. 
In  conversation,  he  gives  vent  to  a  big,  guttural  voice, 
broken  by  gasps  and  grunts ;  and  when  in  motion,  he 
rolls  from  side  to  side,  like  a  merchantman  caught  in  the 
trough  of  the  sea.  His  relish  for  turtles  may  be  ascribed 
to  heredity  of  office ;  for  history  records  that  the  mayors 
of  Bristol  were  notorious  for  this  weakness,  and  that 
one  of  them,  on  a  journey,  allotted  a  special  chariot  to 
the  green-shelled  monsters,  and,  distrustful  of  country 
kitchen-maids,  took  a  skilful  cook  along. 

Captain  Francisco, 

a  highwayman,  is  not  more  than  five  and  thirty  to  the 
view.     His  figure  is  slim  and  boyish ;  his  skin  is  of  a 
transparent  whiteness  on  his  forehead,  but  gradually 
(  xviii ) 


Inscriptions  of  tbe  Gbaracters 

darkens  to  the  heavy  tan  on  his  chin ;  his  features  are 
effeminate  in  cast ;  his  hands  and  feet  are  small :  his 
bearing  is  aristocratic ;  and  his  dress  is  exquisite.  There 
is,  too,  a  mildness  in  his  light-blue  eyes ;  but  this,  like 
his  person,  is  deceptive,  for  it  denotes  a  calmly  desper- 
ate man,  who,  did  he  not  live  in  a  Broughtonian  age, 
might  be  an  honoured  one. 

Monsieur  Barthelemon, 

the  leader  of  the  band  in  Marylebone  Gardens,  is 
middle-aged,  low  and  slender  in  stature,  and  so  excita- 
ble that  he  expresses  himself  as  much  by  antics  as  by 
words.  His  chronic  look  of  outraged  genius,  it  may  be 
added,  lends  further  proof  that  he  has  the  artistic  tem- 
perament, which  claims  the  earth  as  its  preserve  and 
brands  every  one  else  a  poacher. 

Mrs.  Angell, 

the  keeper  of  a  lodging-house,  is  a  young  matron,  plump 
in  form,  comely  in  face,  and  motherly  in  her  ways ;  for 
she  has  not  yet  been  hardened  by  the  cares  of  letting 
rooms.  Harry,  her  son,  is  an  urchin  of  ten  mischievous 
years ;  and  Bertha,  her  daughter,  is  a  coy  little  maid  of 
six  summers,  with  hair  so  red  that  even  her  future  lover 
can  not  mistake  it  for  auburn. 

(xix) 


of 


(xxi) 


THE  BARD 

OF 

MARY  REDCLIFFE. 


ACT  FIRST. 


Scene.  —  The  muniment  room  near  the  summit  of  the 
hexagonal  porch  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  Bristol. 
Four  sides  of  the  apartment  are  shown,  three  of 
which  are  pierced  by  a  series  of  windows  of  four 
lights  each.  At  the  right,  an  oaken  door  opens  on 
winding  steps  that  lead  to  the  roof  above  and  to  the 
interior  of  the  porch  below.  Seven  coffers  of  various 
sizes  are  scattered  about  the  place.  Before  the  rise 
of  the  curtain  there  is  a  chime  of  bells.  Then  the 
voices  of  a  choir  are  heard  faintly  as  the  curtain 
rises,  disclosing  the  moonlit  room  with  a  monk,  in 
cowl  and  scapular,  writing  on  the  top  of  one  of  the 
coffers,  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle.  Suddenly 
the  music  increases  in  volume,  and  then  diminishes 
i 


act  i.]  Zbc  3Baro  of 


as  the  closing  of  a  heavy  door  is  heard.  As  footsteps 
sound  upon  the  spiral  stairway,  the  monk  blows  out 
the  candle,  and  conceals  himself  by  raising  the  lid  of 
the  coffer.  Then  the  Sexton,  with  jangling  keys  in 
one  hand  and  a  lanthorn  in  the  other,  appears  and 
stands  in  the  doorway,  looking  down  the  steps. 

Sexton.    [Holding  the  lanthorn  above  his  head.~\ 
Be  careful,  sir,  the  steps  are  steep  and  winding; 
And  if  you  fall,  you'll  be  whirled  round  so  oft 
You  will  be  giddy  ere  you  reach  the  bottom. 

Phillips.    [From  below. ,] 
Well,  if  I  fall,  I'll  fall  into  the  church. 

Sexton.  The  door  is  locked  and  is  of  oak  and  iron  : 
Best  keep  your  footing. 

Phillips.   [Reaching  the  landing  and  pointing  up  the 
s fairway. ~\ 

Whither  does  this  lead  ? 

Sexton.  Unto  the  roof,  from  which  there  is  a  view 
As  far  as  Clifton  and  Prince  Rupert's  Fort. 
Will  you  go  up  ? 

Phillips.  I'll  wait  till  Thomas  comes  : 

He  asked  me,  sir,  to  meet  him  here  at  curfew. 

Sexton.    [As  they  enter  the  room.~\ 
So  your  name's  Phillips  ;  my  name's  Phillips,  too  : 
We  may  be  relatives. 

2 


/IDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Phillips.  We  may,  indeed. 

I  am  the  usher  at  the  Bluecoat  School 
Who  taught  your  nephew  until  he  was  bound 
To  Lambert,  the  attorney. 

Sexton.  It  is  strange 

He  never  spoke  of  you ;  and  yet  '  tis  not, 
For  seldom  does  he  speak  of  any  one 
Save  Canynge,  who  re-edified  this  church, 
And  Rowley,  his  priest-poet. 

Phillips.  Who  were  alive 

In  reigns  of  Henry  Sixth  and  Edward  Fourth. 

Sexton.    But    have    you   read    the    poems    Rowley 
wrote  ? 

Phillips.  A  few  of  them  :   The  Parliament  of  Sprites, 
The  Bristowe  Tragedy,  The  Tournament ; 
And  Thomas  purposes  to  read  to-night 
A  Song  to  yElla. 

Sexton.  Are  they  not  beautiful  ? 

Phillips.   As  beautiful  as  white  and  red  rose  blended. 

Sexton.   My  nephew  found  them  in  these  very  chests, 
With  parchment  proofs  that  Burgum  takes  descent 
From  some  old  Norman  knight ;  and,  rarer  still, 
A  manuscript  describing  Master  Mayor's 
First  passing  over  the  old  Bristol  bridge 
In  time  of  Henry  Third. 

3 


act  i.]  XTbe  Barfc>  of 


Phillips.  What  angel  led 

To  all  this  coffered  wealth  ? 

Sexton.  Tom's  father,  sir. 

Phillips.  I  thought  that  Chatterton  the  elder  died 
Before  his  son  was  born. 

Sexton.  Both  truths  are  true. — 

Sit  down  upon  that  chest. — The  Chattertons 
Were  sextons  here  two  hundred  years  and  more. 

Phillips.  He  told  me  that. 

Sexton.  Proud  is  he  of  his  birth 

As  a  rooster  of  his  treading ;  all  are  proud. 
His  father — has  he  told  you  aught  of  him  ? 

Phillips.  That  he  was  master  of  the  Pyle  Street  School, 
And  a  sub-chaunter  in  the  Cathedral  here ; 
Was  fond  of  music  and  of  rare  antiques — 

Sexton.  Too  fond  of  music  and  of  rare  old  wine. 
Music  or  wine  alone  we  can  withstand ; 
But  wine  and  music  mingled,  like  rum-punch, 
Drive  us  to  woman  or  the  devil,  sir. 

Phillips.   But  what  of  Thomas  ? 

Sexton.  Listen  or  narrate. 

Old  Chatterton,  who  thought  his  lineage  made 
This  church  his  chapel,  robbed  these  ancient  chests, 
And  covered  school  books  with  the  precious  parchments. 

Phillips.  And  he  a  man  of  learning  ! 
4 


MMM 


r      


/Bars  IRefccliffe*  [act  i. 

Sexton.  One  of  these 

The  youthful  Thomas  found,  and  fell  in  love 
With  its  illuminated  capitals. 
Till  then  we  thought  the  lad  a  hopeless  dunce ; 
For  he  was  stupid  and  would  sit  and  cry, 
Saying  he  wept  because  he  had  been  born.        [Laughs. 

Phillips.   Misunderstood  from  birth. 

Sexton.  But  from  that  day 

He  took  to  reading,  as  a  babe  to  milk, 
And  spent  his  holidays  within  this  church, 
Brooding  the  aisles  or  rummaging  these  chests. 
Why,  I  have  seen  him  sit  by  Canynge's  effigy 
Two  mortal  hours,  as  white  and  motionless 
As  the  alabaster  angel  on  the  tomb. 

Phillips.  Where  is  old  Rowley  buried  ? 

Sexton.  No  one  knows : 

Canynge's  purse-bearer,  cook,  and  brewer  lie 
In  the  south   transept,  but  his  poet's  bones 
Rest  in  a  grave  obscure. 

Phillips.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Has  Thomas  searched  for  it  ? 

Sexton.  I  can  not  say  : 

But  once  I  came  upon  him  in  this  room, 
His  hands  and  face  besmeared  with  lead  and  ochre, 
And  when  I  merely  asked  what  he  was  doing, 

5 


act  i.]  Ube  IBaro  of 


He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  then  begged 
To  be  left  with  Rowley.     And  away  I  went ; 
For  he  could  wheedle  bones  from  kennelled  hounds 
Without  their  snarling. — Would  you  like  to  see 
His  birthplace  ?     You  can  view  it  from  the  windows. 

[Goes  to  the  windows  and  Phillips  follows  him. 

Phillips.  Yes,  show  me  everything  and  tell  me  all ; 
For  he  has  been  secretive,  and  his  eyes 
Like  the  gray  eyne  of  Dawn,  are  ever  turned 
To  a  golden  noontide  and  a  sunset  crimson. 

Sexton.  Why  bless  my  soul,  you  talk  like  Thomas,  sir  ! 
You  see  that  building  just  beyond  Pump  Lane  ? 
Well,  that  is  Pyle  Street  School ;  behind  it  stands 
The  master's  house  where  Chatterton  was  born. 

Phillips.   His  mother  lives  there  still  ? 

Sexton.  No  :   on  the  hill 

By  the  upper  gate ;  she  keeps  a  dame-school  now. 

Male  Hawker.    \_From  the  street '.] 
Hot  spice  gingerbread  !     Hot  spice  gingerbread  ! 

[Sings.] 

It  is  all  hot,  nice  smoking  hot, 

Or  I  would  not  so  cry  ; 
But  if  you  won't  believe,  you  sot, 

You  need  but  taste  and  try. 

Hot  spice  gingerbread  !     Hot  spice  gingerbread  ! 

6 


ZlDarp  TRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Sexton.   \_W1iile  the  cry  is  dying  away  in  the  distance, .] 
He  bakes  good  gingerbread. 

Phillips.  And  makes  good  verse. 

Sexton.  That  is  the  leaning  tower  of  Temple  Church. 
Catcott,  the  Vicar,  is  a  friend  to  Thomas ; 
He  writes  about  the  Deluge. 

Phillips.  So  I  hear. 

Sexton.     There's  Burgum's  house  upon  the  Avon's 
bank, 
This  side  those  fig  trees  in  St.  Peter's  garden. 
Barrett,  the  historian  of  Bristol,  lives — 

Phillips.  I  see  the  house  :  'tis  near  the  Colston  School. 
Sexton.  Well,  when  perplexed  he  comes  for  aid  to 
Thomas. 
[Then  pointing  out  the  different  Churches .] 
St.  Nicholas,  Christ  Church,  All  Saints',  and  St.  Wer- 

burgh's. 
Let  us  unto  the  roof:   the  view  is  better. 
Phillips.   But  if  he  come  ? 

Sexton.    \_Going.~\  We  need  not  tarry  long, 

[As  they  cross  to  the  door,  the  monk  rises  and  stands 
motionless  in  the  moonlight  as  if  reading  a  parch- 
ment.     Then  a  distant  bell  begins  to  toll. 
Phillips.    [Stopping.]     The  curfew. 
Sexton.  Rung  for  ages  from  St.  Nicholas. 

7 


act  i.]  Ube  IBaro  of 


Phillips.    [ Glancing  round  and  seeing  the  monk.~\ 
Look  there  ! 

Sexton.  [Turning.]    O  Heaven  and  Mary — Rowley's 
ghost ! 
Preserve  us  Saints  !  [Sinks  upon  his  knees. 

Phillips.   Rise,  sir ;  it  is  some  trick. 

Sexton.  It  is  no  trick  ! 

It  is  no  trick  !     [Then  to  the  monk.~\     If  we  do  trespass 

here, 
We  will  depart  and  leave  your  poems  sacred. 

Phillips.    Who   are   you  ?      Speak,    or   I   will   rush 
upon  you  ! 

Sexton.    [Rising  and  restraining  Aim."] 
No,  we  must  not  defy  him — come  away  ! 

Phillips.   I'll  sound  this  mystery. 

Sexton.  Oh,  let  us  go  ! 

Phillips.  Who  are  you  ? 

The  Monk.    [  Throwing  off  his  cowl,  and  bursting  into 
laughter  J] 

Thomas  Chatterton  ! 

Sexton.    [Raising  the  lanthorn.]  'Tis  Thomas  ! 

Chatterton.   In  truth  it  is,  for  Rowley's  ghost  is  fled. 
[Then  coming  down  and  taking  their  hands.] 
Forgive  me,  uncle  and  my  dearest  friend, 
This  mediaeval  masking.      'Twas  unkind 
But  not  foreplanned  ;  and  jesters  must  be  cruel. 


<ffl>ar£  IRefccliffe*  [act  i. 

Phillips.  Why  did  you  play  the  ghost  ? 

Chatterton.  'Twas  but  a  freak  ; 

For  when  I  write  I  do  assume  a  guise 
To  lure  the  archaic  Muse. 

Phillips.    [Touching  the  robe.~\     Was  this  found,  too? 

Chatterton.   My  mother  made  it  from  my  own  design. 
You  are  not  angry,  Phillips  ? 

Phillips.  Not  at  all. 

Chatterton.   And  you,  dear  uncle  ? 

Sexton.   [Breathing  hard. ]  I  have  lost  my  speech. 

Chatterton.   But  eyes  can  look  forgiveness ;  yet  '  twas 
wrong, 
And  I  will  wear  no  more  the  monkish  garb 
When  with  my  friends.      [Casts  off  the  robe.'] 

Phillips,  shall  I  unmask? 

Phillips.   You  have  done  so. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  you  will  deem  that  robe 

The  veil  of  April  to  the  cloak  of  March, 
Which  blurs  the  golden  sun  to  silver  patch 
And  dusks  all  England,  when  I  do  unmask. 

Phillips.  You  speak  in  cipher. 

Chatterton.  And  must  so  persist 

Until  I  quench  this  moonlight. 

[Goes  to  a  coffer  and  takes  out  a  bundle  of  can- 
dles. 

9 


act  i.]  Ubc  IBaro  of 


Sex/on.    [Apart  to  Phillips.']  Have  no  fear  : 

On  nights  like  this  the  boy  is  flighty. 

Chatterton.    [Overhearing Aim.']  Ay! 

The  moon  doth  raise  my  spirits  with  the  tides. 
[Then  holding  up  a  candle.] 
Here's  that  will  make  them  ebb  ;  your  lanthorn,  uncle. 

Sexton.  You'll  set  the  church  on  fire  ! 

Phillips.  Be  quiet,  sir. 

Chatterton.    [Lighting  the  candle  and  returning  the 
lanthorn.] 
What  shall  we  dub  this  struggle  ?     Let  it  be 
'A  Battle  'twixt  the  Candles  and  the  Moon.' 
[Inverts  the  candle  so  that  the  tallow  drops  upon  the  chest.] 
Its  blood  is  sluggish ;  we  will  name  it  Lambert. 
Hold  fast,  pale  warrior,  and  oppose  the  Moon 
In  this,  your  castle-city — call  it  'Bristol.' 
[Places  the  candle  upright  on  the  chest  a  fid  lights  another.] 
Hail  Alexander  Catcott,  reverend  Greek  ! 
Your  Treatise  on  the  Deluge  proves  that  you 
Can  squire  the  Nightmare  in  his  joust  with  Dreams. 
Stick  there  !     Now  lend  your  darkling  brother  light. 
[Lights  the  third  candle  at  the  second.] 
George  Catcott,  you  who  climbed  St.  Nicholas'  spire, 
And,  like  an  impious  pigeon,  left  your  mark 
Upon  the  steeple,  do  you  blanch  with  fear 

10 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

When  argent  shafts  from  Luna's  archery 

Pour  through  the  loopholes  of  this  donjon-keep  ? 

[  Waves  his  hand  toward  the  moonlight  streaming  into  the 

windows ;  places  the   third  candle   and  lights  the 
fourth. ~\ 
The  cry  is  '  Barrett  to  the  Rescue  !  '     Come, 
Historian,  bold  when  tilting  'gainst  the  truth; 
Stand  firm  :   the  airy  arrows  of  the  nymph 
Glance  from  your  head-piece.  [Places  the  fourth  candle. ~\ 

Fancy  faints — more  light ! 
[Lights  the  fifth  candle  hurriedly. ~\ 
I  would  not  have  her  dwindle  into  death. 
There,  Thomas  Harris,  gross  and  greasy  Mayor. 
[Places  the  fifth  candle  and  lights  the  sixth. ~\ 
Now,  Thistlethwaite,  stand  upright  if  you  can. 
[Places  the  sixth  candle  and  lights  the  seventh.] 
The  last  pale  knight — shall  it  be  christened  '  Phillips '  ? 
Nay,  Phillips  is  for  me,  I  for  the  Moon, 
And  all  for  Phantasy  ! — Courage,  old  Cutts. 
[Places  the  last  ca?idle,  rises,  and  looks  first  at  the  dimmed 

moonlight  and  then  at  the  seven  burning  candles.] 
The  Candles  win  ! — the  Seven  of  the  Storm, 
That  dwell  within  the  hollows  of  the  Earth 
And  ride  in  chariots  drawn  by  dappled  deer, 
Have  quite  eclipsed  the  Moon,  and  Fancy's  dead. 


act  i.]  Ube  Bart>  of 


Sexton.  Have  you  gone  mad  ? 

Phillips.  I  see  it  all,  dear  Thomas  : 

It  is  your  battle,  and  you  fight  alone  ; 
May  I  be  your  ally  ? 

Chatterton.  [Seizing  his  hand.~\     O  Phillips,  Phillips  ! 
'Twas  but  a  needful  prelude  to  my  tale. 
I  am  encompassed  by  a  host  of  fools  : 
You  cannot  blame  me  if  I  wear  a  mask. 

Phillips.   I  do  not  blame  you. 

Sexton.  And  I  see  no  mask. 

Chatterton.  You  know  of  Rowley,  Phillips  ? 

Phillips.  Yes. 

Chatterton.  His  works? 

Phillips.   What  you  have  read  to  me. 

Chatterton.  Are  they  of  worth? 

Phillips.   Surpassing  worth  ! 

Chatterton.  Why  then,  if  after  charm 

Low  chanted  in  some  weird  Egyptian  strain, 
A  waving  wand,  a  rolling  of  the  eyes, 
A  sprinkling  of  a  powder  on  these  flames — 
These  seven  mystic  flames — he  should  arise, 
What  would  you  say  ? 

Sexton.    [In  alarm.~\      He's  mad  ! 

Chatterton.  Would  welcome  him  ? 

Phillips.  As  warmly  as  if  Chaucer  leaped  to  life. 


fl>ar£  TRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Chatterton.   I  am  the  monk. 

Phillips.  Impossible ! 

Sexto?i.  Alas ! 

Chatterton.  O  doubting  Thomas, had  old  Rowley  lived, 
Think  you  my  father  would  have  covered  books 
With  golden  fleece  like  this  ?        \Holds  out  a  manuscript. 

Phillips.  That  did  seem  strange. 

Chatterton.    Burgum  lacks  birth — I  find  it  for  him 
here ; 
Barrett  needs  chronicles — The  Yellow  Roll 
And  Rowley's  version  of  Turgot  are  found; 
Bristolians  soon  will  celebrate  their  bridge — 
In  Felix  Farley's  Journal  will  appear 
A  rare  account,  in  quaint  old  English  writ, 
Of  how  the  bridge  was  opened  ages  past. 

Phillips.  Too  opportune  for  truth. 

Chatterton.  You  wish  more  proof? 

Give  me  a  theme  :  be  it  the  nameless  knight 
That  in  the  transept  lies  with  crossed  legs 
To  signify  three  visits  to  the  shrine  ; 
Or  Admiral  Penn's  iron  gauntlets,  sword,  cuirass, 
And  helmet  with  the  rampant  lion's  crest, 
Which  rust  beneath  his  trophies  in  the  nave. 
Give  me  an  olden  theme,  one  moonlit  night ; 
Then  hear  my  song. 

J3 


act  i.]  XTbe  Baro  of 


Phillips.  I  could  not  doubt  your  voice, 

Could  I  rebut  your  words. 

Sexton.  'Tis  marvellous  ! 

Chatterton.  Here  is  a  song  to  ^lla,  nesh  and  clean 
As  sacrificial  lamb.     I'll  antiquate  it. 
[  Takes  from  a  coffer  a  piece  of  ochre  in  a  brown  pan, 
charcoal  dust  in  a  pounce-box,  black-lead  powder  in 
a  bottle  ;  then  rubs  the  ochre  on  the  parchment. .] 
This  lends  the  fragrance  of  the  Tudor  rose. 
[Sprinkles  the  charcoal  over  //.] 
This,  of  two  roses — York  and  Lancaster. 
[Holds  up  the  bottle  of  black-lead. .] 
This  used :  'twould  savour  of  the  golden  broom, 
Whose  Gallic  seedling  in  our  English  soil 
Quickened  to  mighty  oak — Plantagenet. 
[Throws  the  parchment  upon  the  floor,  runs  his  foot  over 

it,  and  then  crumples  it  in  his  hand.  ] 
When  they  need  more,  I  smoke  them  in  the  chimney. 
Phillips.    [Examining  the  parchment. ~\      It    is   well 

done. 
Sexton.     [Looking  over  his  shoulder. .]      Ay,  marvel- 
lously well. 
Chatterton.   Note  the  calligraphy,  old  words  and  all. 
There's  wondrous  sorcery  in  spelling,  Phillips. 
Phillips.   None  could  detect — 
14 


flDan?  IRefcclfffe*  [act  i. 

Chatterton.  Not  even  Horace  Walpole. 

But  you  shall  see,  for  I  have  sent  to  him 
The  Ryse  of  Peyncteynge,  wroten  by  T.  Rowleie ; 
And  you  will  hear  him  drum  and  see  him  lift, 
Like  partridge  whirring  to  the  fowler's  call. 

Sexton.   He  may  discover — 

Chatterton.  No. 

Phillips.  But  if  he  should  ? 

Chatterton.  What  then  ?    Did  he  not  publish  his  own 
work, 
The  Castle  of  Otranto,  as  antique  ? 

Phillips.   Why  not  be  open  ? 

Chatterton.  I  have  tried  it,  Phillips  : 

I  once  told  Barrett,  and  he  said  I  lied ; 
Nor  would  my  poems  be  received  as  mine 
Till  verdict  was  recorded  past  recall. 
Were  I  to  leave  this  arrow-lede  to  fame, 
What  of  my  mother  ?     She  is  aging  fast, 
And  I  have  deepened  furrows  on  her  brow. 

Phillips.  Your  course  in  this  seems  clear. 

Chatterton.  Why,  who  is  wronged  ? 

If  these  blood-rubies  flash  Promethean  fire, 
What  matter  whom  they  dight,  myself  or  Rowley  ? — 
Dear  uncle,  Burgum  will  be  here  to-night. 

Sexton.   Not  here  ? 

15 


act  i.]  Ube  Barb  of 


Chatterton.  Yes,  here  :  will  you  meet  him  below 

And  light  him  up  the  steps  ? 

Sexton.    \Going.~\  That  will  I  do, 

Be  it  for  monk  or  nephew. 

Chatterton.  Thank  you,  uncle.      [Exit  Sexton. 

Phillips,  for  giving  Burgum  Norman  sires, 
My  only  plea  is  that  I  am  part  boy ; 
That  he  abused  me,  and  I  linked  the  lies 
To  sport  myself  against  the  pompous  man. 
I  had  not  met  her  then.     She  comes  with  him 
To  see  where  Rowley's  soul  is  sepulchred. 

Phillips.  Who  comes  ? 

Chatterton.  Her  name — think  me  not  overfond — 

His  daughter — Burgum' s  daughter. 

Phillips.  And  do  you — 

Chatterton.   I  hold  my  life  less  dear  to  me  than  art, 
And  she  is  dearer  than  my  dearest  verse. 
More,  gentle  friend,  I  need  not  say  to  you  : 
To  word  my  love  were  to  abase  my  love. 

Phillips.  Does  she  responsive  act? 

Chatterton.  No,  not  to  me : 

She  is  in  love  with  Rowley. 

Phillips.  When  she  learns 

That  Canynge's  bard  has  less  of  earthly  mould 
Than  the  purple  image  of  a  thunder-cloud 

16 


/iDarg  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Beheld  in  dreamful  waters,  will  she  change  ? 

Chatterton.  The  world  and  she  will  love  me  when 

1  say 

'  I  am  old  Rowley — all  he  wrote  is  mine  !  ' 

[A  wild  burst  of  laughter  rises  from  the  street .] 

Drunkards  carousing  at  the  Old  Fox  Inn. 

I  would  their  laugh  had  come  less  timely,  Phillips  ; 

For  trifles  haunt  me. 

Phillips.  'Twas  but  Chance  at  play. 

Chatterton.   Nay,  Fate  may  justly  scourge  me  when  I 
claim 
The  works  of  Thomas  Rowley. — Do  not  laugh. 

Phillips.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Chatterton.  I  feel  that  Rowley  lives  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  him  in  the  moonlight  there 
As  plain  as  I  see  you  ;  and  he  was  weeping. 
Each  crystal  tear-drop  seemed  a  little  world 
Of  sorrow  falling  from  its  native  sphere. 

Phillips.   'Twas  all  a  dream. 

Chatterton.  It  may  have  been,  and  yet — 

Do  you  think,  Phillips,  that  the  mind  can  bear 
Real,  living  spirits  never  clothed  in  flesh, 
That  act  and  suffer  as  we  dream  they  do — 
Making  truth  fancy  and  all  fancy  truth  ? 

Phillips.   Mind  then  usurps  creative  power. 

2  17 


act  i.]  xrbe  38aro  of 


Chatterton.  Not  so  : 

God  moving  on  the  brain,  the  heart,  the  soul — 
The  nobler  part ;  not  on  this  lecherous  frame. 
The  one  you  worship,  Phillips,  was  so  born. 

Phillips.  Such  things  are  past  our  ken. 

Chatterton.  But  not  our  sight : 

And  I  would  swim  upon  this  wave  of  thought 
Though  it  bear  me  to  madness. 

Phillips.  As  you  please. 

Chatterton.    Will   Shakespeare   had    three   children 
scarcely  fit 
To  run  on  four  legs  and  to  nibble  grass : 
Must  Hamlet,  Portia,  Desdemona  die 
And  his  gross  offspring  live  ? — 'Tis  past  belief. 

Phillips.   It  is  not  writ  that  fancy  ends  with  death, 
And,  in  our  fancy,  they  may  live  for  aye. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  they  must  have  a  separate  existence, 
Or  heaven  is  all  a  dream.     What  would  life  be 
With  Vicar  Catcott  paddling  o'er  the  flood 
In  search  of  flotsam  from  old  Noah's  ark; 
Or  his  fool-brother  clambering  up  a  spire  ; 
Or  Barrett  trudging  o'er  a  Roman  camp ; 
Or  Thistlethwaite,  your  colleague  and  my  friend, 
A  charlatan,  a  hypocrite,  a  cur — 

Phillips.  And  Burgum — 
18 


/IDarE  IRe&cliffe.  [act  i. 

Chatterton.  Is  her  father  ;  let  him  pass. 

When  I  am  weary  of  the  things  called  real, 
I  summon  Rowley  and  his  phantom  crew. 
We  catch  the  shimmering  life-lines  of  the  moon, 
Thrown  out  to  drowning  souls,  and  all  aboard, 
Sail  past  the  mysteries  of  endless  space. 
Past  Jupiter,  white  as  is  the  god  of  power 
Enthroned  on  adamant ;  an  eagle  perched 
Upon  his  gauntlet,  and  around  him  grouped 
The  Northern  Winds  that  battle  with  the  Plagues. 
Past  silver  Mercury,  where  the  god  of  wit 
Lolls  on  an  emerald  seat ;  beneath  his  foot 
A  wild  hyena  laughing,  at  his  back 
An  ape  that  chatters  wisdom  in  his  ear. 
Past  yellow  Saturn,  from  whose  ebon  state, 
Infest  with  scorpions,  basilisks,  and  toads, 
The  god  of  melancholy  rules  those  Winds 
On  which  ride  Ague,  Palsy,  and  Despair, 
And  fell  Consumption  with  her  glittering  eyes. 
Past  ruddy  Mars,  where  on  carved  jasper  sits 
The  choleric  god  in  tabard  dyed  vermilion  ; 
A  vulture  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left 
A  mastiff  and  a  panther  held  in  leash, 
While  frantic  Fevers  antic  near  their  liege. 
Past  Venus,  green  as  is  the  western  sky 

19 


act  i.]  Ubc  Baro  of 


Set  with  a  golden  sun  ;  where  rosy  nymphs 

Rise  from  a  violet  sea,  and  on  a  couch 

Of  orient  ruby  lies  the  goddess,  Love, 

Fanned  by  her  swarthy  slave,  the  Southern  Wind, 

The  pearly  tints  of  morning  on  her  form 

And  midnight  in  her  hair. 

Phillips.  '  Tis  beautiful ! 

Chatterton.   Thence  to  the  zenith,  past  the  throne  of 
God; 
So  close  we  hear  the  voices  of  the  angel  choir 
And  see  the  face  of  Christ ! 

Phillips.     [Starting  to   his  feet.~\      Your  words   are 
wild  ! 

Chatterton.   Oh,  when  I  feel  an  ecstasy  like  this, 
The  world  may  sink  to  hell  ! — Forgive  me,  Phillips  : 
The  moon  is  full  and  I  am  in  a  frenzy  ! 

[Throws  his  arms  about  Phillips  and  bursts  into 
tears. 

Phillips.   Dear  Thomas ! 

Chatterton.  Yes,  I  know  :   I  can  not  tread 

The  star-dust  pathway  to  the  Northern  Lights, 
Whence  truth  shines  dimly  through  vast  bergs  of  ice  ; 
Nor  drink  the  magic  vintage  of  the  night, 
Which  spirits  vision  that  o'erwhelms  the  sense : 
Flesh  must  have  ground  and  water. 

20 


/IDarp  IRefccIfffe,  [act  i. 


[Laughter  as  if  the  roisters  were  leaving  the  Inn  is 
heard  and  then  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  stairs. 
Phillips.  They  are  coming. 

Chattertofi.   Yes,  Burgum  and  his — 
Phillips.  Why,  you  pale  and  shake 

As  if  Saturnian  wind  swept  over  you. 

Chatterton.    Hope  lies  with   folded  wings  in  white 
cocoon ; 
Then  bursts  to  light,  a  rainbow-tinted  joy, 
With  tearful  vans  that  flutter  ere  they  fly. — 
Oh,  I  shall  flush  and  stammer  like  a  fool ! 
You  do  not  smile  :   you  have  a  poet's  heart. 

[Enter  the  Sexton,  Mrs.   Chatterton,  and  her 
daughter  Mary.] 
Mother ! 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   Do  not  be  attery,  Tommy. 
Chatterton.    \_Going  to  her  and  embracing  her. ~\      No. 
O  mother  dear,  it  seems  almost  a  crime 
For  me  to  love  another. 

Mary.    [Roguishly.]  Oh,  indeed  ! 

Chatterton.    [Kissing  her. ]      Not  you,  sweet  sister. 
Mary.  No,  but  some  one  else, 

Or  you  have  changed ;  for  when  you  were  but  six, 
To  lure  you  from  the  lumber  room,  we  said 
Your  little  sweetheart,  Sukey  Webb,  was  come. 

21 


act  i.]  Ubc  Bart)  of 


Chatterton.  Poor  Sukey  ! — My  mother  and  my  sister, 
Phillips. 
[Phillips  bows  and  the  women  courtesy. .] 
Receive  him,  mother,  as  my  trusty  friend, 
Most  meet  to  be  my  dear  associate 
In  my  best  moments.     He  has  my  Rowley  secret. 

Sexton.  And  my  family  name. 

Chatterton.  Uncle,  remember  Burgum. 

Sexton.  The  pewterer  had  melted  in  my  mind. 

[Exit  Sexton. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.    [  Taking  eatables  from  a  basket  and 
putting  them  on  a  coffer,  while  Mary  and  Phillips 
converse. ,] 
I'  ve  brought  you  sheep  tongues  and  a  pot  of  tea — 
Alack,  the  tea  is  cold  ! 

Ckatterton.  It  matters  not : 

By  gorging  I  would  make  myself  more  dull 
Than  God  has  made  me. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  You  must  eat,  Tommy. 

Chatterton.  Please,  mother,  call  me  Thomas  or  plain 
Tom : 
Think  you  that  Shakespeare  ever  did  permit 
A  soul  to  call  him  Billy  ? 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  It  shall  be  Thomas. 

Chatterton.  For  Rowley's  sake,  not  mine. 


flDarg  IRefcclfffe*  [act  i. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.    [Handing  him    a  tongue. ,]      Now, 
son,  eat  this. 

Chatterton.   Do  you  know,  mother,  I  could  give  that 
tongue 
The  eloquence  of  Pitt  or  make  it  sing 
Like  Chaucer? — I  will  eat  it  by-and-by.         [Returns it. 

Phillips.  Your  sister  says  you  seldom  eat. 

Mary.  Or  sleep. 

Chatterton.  I  have  a  queasy  stomach  ;  for  I  feed 
With  Lambert's  scullion  at  the  kitchen  board, 
And  with  the  footboy  lodge,  when  I  am  one 
To  lie  with  kings  and  feel  they  break  my  rest. 

Phillips.   He  is  a  brute  ! 

Chatterton.  And  you  the  prince  of  friends 

To  check  my  vapouring  with  sympathy 
And  not  with  chiding. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  Chiding  makes  him  worse. 

Mary.     Both    Lambert    and   his   mother   treat   him 
ill. 

Chatterton.   Their  day  will  pass. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  And  yours  will  come,  my  son. 

I  well  remember  when  you  were  a  child 
You  would  not  read  from  out  a  little  book  ; 
And  in  the  games  you  were  the  master-man 
With  all  your  playmates  servants ;  once  you  said, 

23 


act  i.]  Ube  JBaro  of 


'  Paint  me  an  angel  with  a  trumpet,  mother, 
To  blow  my  name  throughout  the  listening  world.' 
Chatterton.  Think  me  not  wholly  vain  and  selfish, 
Phillips. 
I  feel  like  a  spokesman  of  a  Saxon  king, 
With  parchment  credence  bearing  royal  seal : 
Proud  of  entrusted  power,  resolved  to  gain 
The  vantage  in  the  league  for  my  own  folk. 

[Puts  his  arm  round  his  mother. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.   Selfish  !  why,  when  he  toddled  by 
my  side, 
His  tiny  fingers  holding  to  my  gown, 
He  begged  for  pennies  to  give  beggars,  sir. 

Phillips.   He  is  a  manly  boy,  a  boyish  man  ; 
Self-willed,  impetuous,  full  of  fire  divine, 
And  yet,  withal,  befooled  by  fools  to  folly. 

\_Footsteps  and  voices  on  the  stairs  again  are  heard, 
and  Chatterton  shows  signs  of  agitation. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.   Your  words  have  hurt  him,  sir. 
Chatterton.  No,  mother,  no  : 

He  is  as  kind  to  me  as  Joseph  was 
To  Benjamin. — My  guests  are  coming  up. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  Then  I  will  make  things  tidy. 

[Puts  the  eatables  into  the  basket. 
Mary.  Who  are  they,  Tom  ? 

24 


/iDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Phillips.   Miss  Burgum  and  her  father. 
Mary.  Oh  ! 

Sexton.    [Arriving  on  the  landing.]         This  way,  sir. 
Burgum.   Whew  !  surely  I  have  climbed  from  hell  to 
heaven. 

Enter  the  Sexton  followed  by  Henry  Burgum. 
Chatterton.     [To  Phillips.]       His  daughter  has  not 

come. 
Burgum.    [Gruffly.]  Well,  Chatterton. 

Chatterton.   My  mother,  sister,  Thomas  Phillips,  sir. 
Burgum.    [Scarcely  noticing  them.]      My  Pedigree  is 

finished,  eh? 
Chatterton.  It  is. 

Burgum.   Then  let  me  see  it. 

[  Chatterton  goes  to  a  coffer. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.  Pleasant  evening,  sir. 

Burgum.  You'd  say  that,  madam,  had  yEolus  loosed 
The  ventus  and  sonorus  tempestates. 

Phillips.   Luctantes  ventos  tempestatesque  sonoras 
Is  the  line  you  seek. 

Burgum.  Well,  let  it  be  the  line : 

We  men  of  birth  leave  Latin  to  our  clerks. 

Chatterton.     [Peturning  and  giving  a   manuscript  to 
Burgum.] 
That  is  your  Pedigree  which  I  have  traced 

25 


act  i.]  Zbe  Baro  of 


From  Simon  de  Seyncte  Lyze,  a  Norman  knight, 
Who  came  with  William  First,  and  then  was  made 
Earl  of  Northampton. 

Burgum.  Noble  to  the  core  ! 

Chatterton.   Observe  this  Patent  in  the  Latin  tongue, 
Granting  the  right  to  Asheton  and  Sir  Trafford 
To  change  base  metals  into  precious  ones. 

Burgum.  That  knights  my  trade  ;  for  I  melt  tin  and 
lead 
To  purest  pewter. 

Phillips.    [To  Mary.~\  A  subtle  compliment. 

Burgum.  [Reads. ~\      '  Per  Artem  sive  Scientiam  Phi- 
losophise.' 
[Then  with  aJi  air  of  learning.] 
Through  Art  or  Science  of  Philosophy. 
We  can  translate  when  we  are  in  the  humour. 
[Glances  over  several pages. ,] 
It  is  a  lengthy  Pedigree. — What's  this? 
[Reads.]    '  Radcliff  de  Chatterton  of  Chatterton, 
The  General  Heir  of  many  Families.' 
You  knave  !  you  put  that  in  to  raise  yourself. 

Chatterton.   Consult  the  March  and  Garter  Records, 
sir. 

Burgum.  To  hell  with  them  !     What  is  that  in  your 
hand? 

26 


flDar^  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Chatterton.    This,  sir,  is    the  de  Bergham   Coat-of- 
arms. 

Burgum.  My  Coat-of-arms  ! — by  heaven,  it  shall  be 
graved 
In  granite  o'er  my  door. 

Phillips.  Like  the  odd  device 

Of  Abbot  Nailheart  o'er  the  Lower  Gateway. 

Burgum.   When  did  he  live  ? 

Chatterton.  Three  centuries  ago. 

Burgum.  Only  three  centuries — an  upstart  man  ! 
Name  me  the  bearings  of  such  royal  hues 
On  my  escutcheon. 

Chatterton.    \_Taking  the  ArmsJ\      On  this  quarter  or 
There  is  a  cheeky  cross  argent  and  azure 
Between  four  crosses,  sir,  pattee — 

Burgum,  By  God  ! 

These  blood-red  crosses  blazon  holiness 
In  every  one  of  my  illustrious  sires. 

Phillips.   It  ended  in  your  father. 

Burgum.  Save  your  breath 

To  pay  respect  to  one  of  such  descent. 

Chatterton.  An  azure  field  with  fess  indented  argent 
Between  three  heads  of  stags  cabossed  gules 
And  armed  or. 

Burgum.  Most  lordly  sportsmen  all ! 

27 


act  i.]  TTbe  Bare  of 


Chatterton.  Argent,  a  bend  vair  or  and  azure  'tween 
Spears  bendwise  gules. 

Burgum.  You  rob  my  lungs  of  air ! 

Phillips.   Enough  is  left  for  swearing. 

Burgum.  Hold  your  tongue  ! 

Chatterton.   Barry  of  fourteen  pieces  purpure,  sir, 
And  ermine,  with  chevronel  engrailed  or, 
Surmounted  by  another  counter-changed. 
Beneath  you  see  inserted  in  a  scroll — 

Enter  Bertha  with  the  Sexton's  lanthorn. 

Burgum.    [Noticing  Chatter  to  ti' '  s  confusion.~\ 
What  ails  the  fool  ? 

Chatterton.   [Significantly.']   The  motto  is  '  Ryde  on ! ' 

Burgum.    [To  Bertha."]   What  were  you  doing? 

Bertha.  Examining  the  walls 

That  Rowley's  hands  have  touched,  the  steps  of  stone 
His  weary  feet  have  worn,  and,  part  way  up, 
The  door  that  opens  to  a  deadly  fall. 

Burgum.  You  silly  girl,  here  are  our  Pedigree 
And  Coat-of-arms  ! 

Flower-Girl.    [From  the  street.]      Buy  my  rosemary, 
buy  sweet  briar  !     Rosemary  and  sweet  briar  O  ! 
[Sings."] 

Rosemary  and  briar  sweet 
I  every  day  do  cry 
28 


m>ar£  TRefcclffte.  [act  i. 

Through  every  square  and  street ; 
Come  buy  it  sweet,  come  buy  it  dry! 

Rosemary  and  sweet  briar  O  ! 

[As  the  cry  is  heard,  Thistlethwaite  steals  up  the 
stairway,  peers  into  the  room,  and  then  goes  up 
the  steps  toward  the  roof. 
Bertha.    \_To  Chatterton.~\     Where  are  those  poems, 

sir  ? 
Chatterton.   Within  that  chest. 
Burgum.  You  shall  not  look  at  them  ! 

Chatterton.   The  voice  of  that  belated  flower-girl  tells 
That  rosemary  and  sweet  briar  prove  a  drug 
To  hot  spice  gingerbread. 

Bertha.  And  soulful  songs 

To  coats-of-arms. 

Burgum.  Damn  Rowley  and  his  songs  ! 

Chatterton.   'Tis  useless,  then,  for  me  to  tell  you,  sir, 
That  in  the  Fourteenth  century  there  lived 
One,  John  de  Bergham,  who  made  several  books, 
Translated  Homer  into  English  verse, 
And  wrote  this  ballad,  '  The  Romance  of  the  Knight. ' 
Burgum.    Give   me   that   poem  !     What   new  glory 
next? 
Here  is  a  poet  you  may  love,  my  girl. 

29 


act  i.]  Ube  JSaro  of 


[Takes  the  parchment  and  attempts  to  read  it.~\ 
I  should  have  brought  my  eye-glass. 

Bertha.   [Looking  at  //.]  'Tis  old  English. 

Chatterton.    [Taking  the  parchment  and  reading, .] 

'  The  sunne  ento  Vyrgyne  was  gotten, 
The  floureys  al  arounde  onspryngede — ' 

I  have  the  poem  modernised  at  home. 

Burgum.    Most    beautiful!    superb!      There    is    a 
crown  : 
I  patronise  the  Muse  when  she  appears 
In  noble  form.  [Gives  him  a  crown. 

Bertha.    [After  again  looking  at  the  parchment, .] 
It  does  not  equal  Rowley. 

Burgum.   Bah  !  Rowley  was  a  monk.     But  let  us  go : 
Barrett  must  see  this  ere  he  goes  to  bed. 
I'll  call  to-morrow  for  your  version,  boy. 

Chatterton.  Uncle. 

Sexton.  I  will  attend  them  to  the  street. 

Bertha.  Good-night  to  all. 

[Exeunt  Sexton,  Burgum,  and  Bertha 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  That  man  was  so  uncivil. 

Phillips.  He  is  an  ignorant,  presumptuous  fellow, 
And  swears  profanely. 

Mary.  True ! 

3° 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Chatterton.  If  Burgum  roils 

Your  placid  current,  Phillips,  think  of  mine — 
An  Avon  flood  that  tides  o'er  fouling  mud 
Past  beauteous  scenes. — Is  Bertha  not  most  fair? 
Phillips.  Yes,  very  fair. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  No  fairer  than  my  son. 

Phillips.   Or  daughter,  madam. 
Mary.  Oh  ! 

Chatterton.  He  is  sincere. 

Phillips.    [A  little  embarrassed.~\ 
Well,  I  must  go,  or  I  shall  be  reproved 
By  our  head-master. 

Chatterton.    \Taking  up  the  seventh  candle. ~\ 

Cutts  will  be  our  torch. 
Phillips,  give  Burgum' s  crown  to  that  flower-girl. 
Mary.  Are  you  not  coming  ? 

Chatterton.  No  further  than  the  porch. 

Phillips.    Then    I    will     take   your    mother   to    her 

door. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.   You  are  so  thoughtful. 
Chatterton.  These  steps  are  treacherous. 

[Exeunt  all.      While  their  laughter  is  heard  rising 
from  the  stairway,  Thistlethwaite  steals  down  the 
steps  from  above  the  muniment  room,  hurries  to 
one  of  the  coffers,  and  ransacks  it,  now  and  then 
31 


act  i.]  Ubc  3Baro  of 


stopping  to  listen.      Then  he  goes  from  coffer  to 
coffer  and  examines  the  contents  of  each. 
Watchman.    [From  the  street. .]   Past  nine  o'clock  and 
a  moonlight  night !    Past  nine  o'clock  and  a  moon- 
light night !     Past  nine  o'clock  and  a  moonlight 
night ! 

[As  the  cry  grows  fainter  and  fainter,  Chatterton, 
with  the  lighted  candle  still  in  his  hand,  enters  the 
room  and,  running  noiselessly  to  Thistlethwaite , 
seizes  him  by  the  throat  and  holds  the  candle  to 
his  face. 
Chatterton.  You  thief ! 

Thistlethwaite.    [Struggling, .]      Unhand  me  ! 
Chatterton.  Stealing  on  your  knees  ! 

Thistlethwaite.   Let  loose,  I  say  ! 
Chatterton,  Not  yet,  friend  Thistlethwaite. 

Thistlethwaite.   Your  gripe  is  strangling  me  ! 
Chatterton.  Best  cease  to  writhe ; 

For  scuffling  ever  rouses  me  to  rage, 
And  I  may  hurl  you  down  those  steps,  you  toad, 
And  with  your  venom  spatter  all  the  stones. 
Thistlethwaite.  What  have  I  done  to  you  ? 
Chatterton.  What  would  you  do  ? 

Tear  from  my  throat  a  carcanet  of  gems 
In  pendent  sparkles  richer  than  the  rays 

32 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Of  the  Golconda  brilliant ;  and  clasp  it,  too, 
About  your  scurfy  neck. 

Thistlethwaite.  It  is  not  yours. 

Chatterton.   Take   it  by  law  and   not  by     looting, 

then. 
Thistlethwaite.   What  right  have  you — 
Chatterton.  The  right  of  one  who  ploughs 

Through  unkeeled  seas  to  sunset  lands  untrod — 
A  Cabot's  right. 

[Then  forcing  him  down  as  he  attempts  to  rise. 
Remain  upon  your  knees  ! 
You  churchman  without  charity  or  grace  ; 
You  scholar  without  learning  or  its  trend  ; 
You  statesman  without  honesty  or  depth, 
Cleaning  the  ponderous  shoes  of  petty  men 
To  earn  a  pennyworth  of  parish  power  ; 
You  flea  in  both  activity  and  poise, 
Hop  on  some  mangy  cur,  your  proper  prey, 
And  cease  tormenting  else.     And  now  begone  ! 

[Flings  him  gasping  upon  the  floor. 
Thistlethwaite.  [Rising.]  The  Vicar  shall  know  all. 
Chatterton.  You  shall  not  say 

That  I  am  niggard  of  this  copper  race 
Inhabiting  my  West.     Take  them  for  slaves. 
[Takes  up  a  parchment  and  glances  at  //.] 
3  33 


act  i.]  Zbc  3Baro  of 


This  is  a  Testament  that  doth  bequeath 

A  negro  boy  named  Tallow.     It  comes  pat. 

[  Throzvs  it  to  Thistlethwaite  and  takes  up  another.  ] 

This,  a  Petition  from  the  Vestry  here 

To  Bishop  Seeker,  asking  him  to  grant 

A  faculty  for  one  fair  organ  built 

Without  his  sanction.      'Twas  a  sinful  past ! 

\_Throws  it  to  Thistlethwaite  and  takes  up  a  third. ~\ 

This  is  the  Will  of  Sarah  Deane,  who  leaves 

To  her  god-daughter  one  brass  kettle  pot, 

Her  green  say  apron,  and  worst  little  bed ; 

And  to  her  son,  in  solemn  terms  of  law, 

Her  scarlet  petticoat  with  gold  galoome 

That  he  may  make  a  waistcoat  of  the  cloth. 

[  Throws  it  to  Thistlethivaite.  ] 

But  Friendship  reckoning  when  she  lends  to  friend 

Should  be  by  measure  paid.     Give  well,  give  all ! 

[  Throws  armfuls  of  the  parchments  over  Thistle - 
thwaite. 

Thistlethtvaite.    You  have  the  Rowley  poems  under 
bolt, 
And  I  shall  find  the  key. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  spare  your  pains  : 

Not  all  the  power  of  England  could  unlock 
The  coffer  of  old  Rowley's  manuscripts  ! 

34 


/iDarE  IRefccltffe.  [act  i. 

Enter  Bertha. 

Bertha.  I  thought  they  still  were  here.       [  Turns  to  go. 

Chatterton.  Oh,  do  not  go  ! — 

Wait  the  departure  of  this  gentleman. 
[Then  as  she  is  about  going,  he  quickly  adds.~\ 
The  passageway  is  narrow  down  the  steps. 
[Points  to  the  door,  and  Thistlcthwaite  departs. ~\ 
He  came  to  filch  what  I  so  freely  give. 

Bertha.   You  will  call  me  a  robber  when  you  learn 
That,  slipping  from  my  father,  I  have  come 
To  purloin  a  Rowley  poem. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  to  claim 

What  was  inspired  by  you. 

Bertha.  By  me? 

Chatterton.  Who  knows 

But  that  a  soul  may  love  a  soul  unborn 
And  centuries  removed?     His  yElla  loved 
The  Saxon  maiden,  Bertha. 

Bertha.  Mystic  praise  ! 

And  my  reply,  good -night.  [Turns  toward  the  door. 

Chatterton.  Resolve  the  word 

And  say  '  Good-death  and  speed  you  to  your  doom  !  ' 

Bertha.    [Stopping. ,]      Is  that  from  Rowley? 

Chatterton.  'Tis  a  paraphrase. 

Bertha.    [Again  going. .]      Good-bye. 
35 


act  i.]  Ubc  l&axb  ot 


Chatterton.  That  word  spun  him  a  priestly  frock, 

As  heavenly  orbs  foretold. 

Bertha.    [Turning.]  What  heavenly  orbs  ? 

Chatterton.  Venus  and  Saturn  were  his  parent  stars  ; 
And  oft  he  watched  them  from  the  windows  here. 
[Goes  to  the  windows  and  Bertha  follows  Aim.'] 
There's  Saturn  shining  with  malefic  light 
To  blast  his  babes  ;  and  there  is  Venus,  too, 
In  fell  conjunction  with  the  jaundiced  god, 
As  on  that  natal  hour. 

Bertha.  Dear  Rowley's  hour  ! 

Chatterton.   The  horoscope  ascendant  at  his  birth 
Was  Gemini,  with  Mercury  lord  thereof, 
Who  gives  the  stringed  shell. 

Bertha.  'Twas  well  bestowed. 

Chatterton.  The  Moon,  the  lady  of  the  second  house, 
Was  posited  malignant  in  the  twelfth, 
The  gaol -house  of  the  skies,  foreboding  want 
And  even  prison  chains  ;  but  Jupiter  shone 
From  out  the  pasture  of  the  plunging  Bull, 
And  dimmed  her  baleful  rays. 

Bertha.  Well  done,  bright  star  ! 

Chatterton.    [Coming from  the  windows.] 
The  crescent  Moon  allied  the  sinking  Sun 
In  twilight  coalition  'gainst  the  child  ; 

36 


/H>ar£  TRefccllffe.  [act  i. 

And  from  their  proper  houses  rushed  the  stars 
With  steely  spears,  as  if  to  slay  wild  boar  ; 
But  from  his  laurelled  helmet,  lightning-proof, 
Their  points  fell  blunt,  till  Venus  hurled  her  darts, 
Ensteeped  in  Saturn's  bane,  and  pierced  his  heart. 

Bertha.  Poor,  star-crossed  bard  ! 

Chatterton.    [Showing  her  a  parchment.  ] 

Here  is  a  swan-like  song. 
'Tis  yellowed  by  the  feet  of  pilgrim  years 
And  wrinkled  by  the  clutch  of  times  profane  ; 
Writ  in  his  blood  and  blurred  with  burning  tears. 

[Covers  his  face  with  his  hands  and  sinks  upon  a 
chest. 

Bertha.    [Kneeling  beside  him.~\ 
Tell  me  of  him ;  and  when  I  read  his  verse, 
The  meaning  of  his  life  will  mingling  flow 
And  clear  the  cloudy  lines. 

Chatterton.  The  tale  is  sad  : 

His  youth  was  travail ;  life  in  fulness  came 
When  he  beheld  her  first. 

Bertha.  Who  was  the  lady  ? 

Chatterton.  A  maid  as  beautiful  and  free  from  guile 
As  roseate  baby  slumber. 

Bertha.  And  her  name  ? 

Chatterton.  The  name  of  ^Ella's  love. 
37 


act  i.]  Ube  Baro  of 


Bertha,  'Twas  Bertha,  then. 

Chatterton.   The  vision  took  its  christening  from  the 
real. 

Bertha.  He  must  have  loved  her  well. 

Chatterton.  Too  well  for  speech  : 

His  love  uprose  like  snowdrop  in  the  snow, 
And  flowers  were  its  interpreters. 

Bertha.  Chaste  flowers  ! 

Chatterton.   At  first  he  sent  her  lilacs  to  unveil 
The  purpled  birth  of  passion. 

Bertha.  I  would  have  worn 

White  hawthorn  buds  to  token  purest  hope. 

Chatterton.  Then  lovely  speedwells  and  geraniums  wild, 
Plucked  on  the  lofty  cliffs  whose  summits  catch 
The  nightingale's  first  ecstasy  of  song 
As  it  comes  o'er  the  Avon  from  Leigh  Woods, 
Like  blissful  voice  across  the  gorge  of  death. 

Bertha.   St.  Vincent's  Rocks ! 

Chatterton.  Then  pinks  in  native  cress, 

Heart' s-ease,  and  rath  primroses  sprigged  with  broom  ; 
For  he  was  young  and  humble  in  his  love. 
And  then  dog-roses  in  their  leaves  and  thorns, 
Blue  periwinkles  and  their  pallid  friends, 
The  florets  of  the  wind,  with  sprays  of  heath, 
The  weed  of  solitude. 

38 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Bertha.  And  no  response  ? 

A  scarlet  poppy  should  have  decked  her  hair. 

Chatterton.  Ere  summer  and  the  autumn  rolled  away, 
He  sent  her  marigolds  with  jasmine  buds  ; 
The  meadow  saffron  with  the  bitter-sweet ; 
And  in  the  chilling  winter  of  his  heart, 
Garlands  of  aloe,  cypress,  and  dead  leaves, 
With  all  the  blooms  denoting  love's  despair 
Entwined  in  mystic  order  ;  and  at  last, 
The  plant  that  whispers  in  the  Spanish  tongue 
'  I  perish,  maiden,  if  you  love  me  not  !  ' 

Bertha.   Scarlet  geranium  for  her  stupid  head 
And  laurel  for  his  brow  !     Did  she  reply  ? 

Chatterton.    Her  passion,  like  the  laurel,  blossomed 
late : 
Her  lover,  Rowley,  had  espoused  the  Church. 

Bertha.   She  must  have  loved. 

Chatterton.  She  was  in  love  with  Homer ; 

For  he  was  elder,  and  he  wrote  in  Greek. 

Bertha.    [Rising  suddenly  and  placing  her  hand  on  the 
flowers  at  her  breast. ~\     You  sent  these  lilacs,  sir  ! 

Chatterton.    [Sinking  upon  his  knee.~\      O  lady,  hear  ! 
Hear  one  whose  pride  will  bend  the  knee  to  naught 
Save  Mary  Redcliffe,  England,  and  yourself. 

Bertha.  What  does  this  mean  ? 
39 


act  i.]  Ubc  3Baro  of 


Chatterton.  That  you  are  like  the  maid 

Who  wore  the  fragrant  emblems  of  his  love 
Upon  her  breast,  and  threw  his  heart  away. 

Bertha.  Alas  !  what  can  I  do  ? 

Chatterton.  Wear  hedgerow  flowers, 

And  they  shall  be  as  sacred  in  my  thoughts 
As  the  buds  that  blow  for  May-day  and  for  Yule 
On  Glastonbury  thorn. 

Bertha.  I  must  not  stay. 

Chatterton.   Nay,  drive  me  not  to  winter  and  dead 
leaves. 

Bertha.  I  much  regret — 

Chatterton.  Oh,  leave  me  only  hope  ! 

And  you  shall  find  a  poet  living  now 
Who  will  unstring  to  none.     I  am  but  young, 
A  man  in  song  though  still  a  boy  in  years  : 
Let  love  come  flooding  in,  like  moonlight  there, 
And  I  will  make  the  monkish  Rowley  seem 
A  cawing  chough  beside  a  spring-tide  thrush. 
Yea  !  in  the  summered  plenitude  of  power, 
I  will  envelop  you  in  golden  showers 
Of  sparks  dilating  with  celestial  fire  ! 

Bertha.  You  frighten  me  !    Some  one  is  on  the  steps  ! 
[  Voices  and  footsteps  are  heard. 

Chatterton.  What  mortal  can  oppose  the  potent  stars  ? 
40 


/iDars  TRetoliffe,  [act  i. 

'Tis  Saturn's  work  !     I  hear  them  coming  up, 
Like  those  two  shuffling  knaves  in  Berkeley  Castle 
Who  killed  an  English  king. — Be  not  afraid  : 
I  shall  be  commonplace  in  daylight,  lady. 

Enter  the  Sexton,  Broughton,  and  Thistlethwaite. 

Broughton.  What  business  have  you  here  ? 

Chatterton.  Not  much  nor  little. 

Broughton.   Miss  Burgum,  your  surprise  me. 

Bertha.  I  confess 

That  I  was  not  discreet. 

Chatterton.  The  fault  is  mine  : 

I  lured  the  lady  with  some  lays  of  eld 
Writ  by  a  priestly  hand. 

Broughton.  Those  selfsame  lays 

Belong  to  Mary  Redcliffe,  not  to  you. 

Chatterton.   O  reverend  sir,  I  should  reply  in  wrath, 
Were  you  not  Vicar  to  the  dearest  Saint 
In  dearest  England. 

Broughton.  You  are  idolatrous  ! 

Chatterton.   Then  lead  me  from  another  wilderness  : 
Glad  me  with  countenance  and  counsel,  sir, 
And  I  shall  be  as  open  as  the  skies 
In  every  thought ;  uprear  our  broken  spire, 
Until  its  gilded  vane  shall  gleam  afar 
And  guide  the  future  o'er  forbidding  seas 

4i 


act  i.]  Ube  38aro  of 


To  bless  your  memory.     Pause  ere  you  speak  : 
This  is  my  fallow  hour. 

Broughton.  Your  nonsense  hour. 

Richard,  debar  your  nephew  from  this  church, 
Or  you  shall  be  dismissed.     Friend  Thistlethwaite, 
We  will  explore  these  coffers  in  the  morning. 

Thistlethwaite.    He  may  have  manuscripts  of  value 

hid. 
Chatterton.  Keep  him  to  silence,  or  behold  a  deed 
Loosed  from  religion  and  the  bonds  of  love. 

Broughton.   Restrain  your  anger  in  this  holy  place. — 
Miss  Burgum,  I  am  walking  past  your  house. 
\Then  taking  the  lanthom  from  the  Sexton.~\ 
Remain  behind  and  see  your  nephew  out. 

[A s  Bertha  crosses  to  the  door,  the  lilacs  fall  from 
her  breast.  She  hesitates  for  a  moment,  and  then 
hurriedly  joins  the  Vicar  on  the  landing.  Chat- 
terton picks  up  the  lilacs,  and,  sinking  upon  a 
coffer,  buries  his  face  in  the  flowers.  Broughton, 
Bertha,  and  Thistlethwaite  go  down  the  steps, 
leaving  the  Sexton  standing  near  the  door,  looking 
with  pity  at  his  nephevv.  Then  the  voices  of  the 
choir  are  heard  singing  the  close  of  the  service, 
and  Chatterton  suddenly  raises  his  head  with  a 
look  of  exaltation. 

42 


ZlDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  i. 

Chatterton.  The  voice  of  Mary  Redcliffe  ! 
Sexton.  Shall  we  go  ? 

Chatterton.   Not  for  a  thousand  vicars  self-ordained. 
Sexton.  We  must  not  linger. 

Chatterton.  Oh,  give  me  to-night : 

Some  mystic  presence  hovers  in  the  air. 

Sexton.   Put  out  the  candles,  then,  lest  he  detect 
That  you  have  not  gone  home. 

Chatterton.    [After  blowing  out  all  of  the  candles  ex- 
cept the  second.']  Take  Catcott,  uncle. 
The  ark  was  lighted  by  the  ruddy  glow 
Of  carbuncles.     Good-night. 

Sexton.  Good-night,  my  boy. 

[Exit  Sexton.       Chatterton  kisses  the  lilacs,  and 
then,  going  to  the  coffer  at  ivhich  he  was  first  seen, 
takes  up  a  7nanuscript. 
Chatterton.  This  Ode  to  Freedom  must  be  writ  by 
dawn.      [Reads. ~\ 

'  Hard  as  the  thunder  doth  she  drive  it  on, 
Wit  skilly  whimpled  guides  it  to  his  crown  ; 
His  long  sharp  spear,  his  spreading  shield  is  gone ; 
He  falls,  and  falling  rolleth  thousands  down. 
War,  gore-faced  War,  by  Envy  burled  arist, 

His  fiery  helm  ynodding  to  the  air, 
Ten  bloody  arrows  in  his  straining  fist — ' 

43 


act  i.]  xrbe  3Baro  of 


[He  stops,  runs  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  then 
walks  up  and  down  repeating  the  last  line  at  in- 
tervals. ] 
'  Ten  bloody  arrows  in  his  straining  fist !  ' 
Ah  me  !   the  line  hath  quite  o'erwhelmed  my  fancy. 
I  am  worn — a  ghostly  whisper  bids  me  rest : 
I '  11  sleep .  [Rolls  up  the  monk1  s  rode  for  a  pillow,  and 

lies  dow?i  tipon  the  coffer  in  the  moonlight. ~\ 

When  you  are  ready,  Rowley,  wake  me. 
[As  he  sinks  into  slumber,  with  one  hand  holding 
the  bunch  of  lilacs  falling  over  the  side  of  the 
chest,  the  vision  of  a  monk  gradually  appears 
dawning  in  his  dreams.  Chatterton  moves  un- 
easily, smiles  in  his  sleep;  and  the  curtain  slowly 
descends  as  the  choral  music  dies  away. 


AA 


/B>ar$  IRefccliffe.  [act  ii. 


ACT  SECOND. 

Scene.— -John  Lamb  erf  s  house  in  Bristol.  A  great  oak- 
panelled  hall,  once  the  chapel  of  William  Canynge, 
with  a  tess elated  pavement  and  a  gallery  running 
along  the  wall  at  the  right.  The  high-pitched  timber 
roof,  with  central  louvre  or  lanthorn,  is  supported 
by  curved  bracing  ribs  resting  on  corbels  of  demi- 
angels  bearing  shields.  At  the  back,  a  massive  stair- 
case, with  quaint  newel  heads,  bases  and  handrails, 
rises  a  few  steps  to  a  large  landing,  from  which  a 
narrow  flight  of  stairs  leads  to  the  gallery  above.  A 
casement  of  stained  glass,  in  the  centre  of  this  land- 
ing, forms  an  entrance  to  the  garden,  and,  when  open, 
discloses  trees,  the  Avon,  and  part  of  the  city  beyond. 
At  the  right,  is  an  archway  or  main  entrance  to  the 
hall ;  at  the  left,  are  a  doorway  to  the  parlour  and, 
further  down,  a  sculptured  mantelpiece  representing 
the  Judgment  of  Solomon.  Rich  rugs  are  spread 
here  and  there  over  the  tiles ;  a  carved  oaken  table 
and  chairs  of  antique  design  are  near  the  archway  ; 
and  near  the  mantelpiece  are  a  smaller  table,  several 
chairs,  and  a  curious  old  settle.  Candelabra,  law 
45 


act  ii.]  ZEbe  Bart)  ot 


books,  and  some  faded  flowers  are  on  the  table.  At 
the  rise  of  the  curtain,  the  sunlight  is  streaming  in 
many  colours  through  the  casement,  and  the  glow  from 
a  log  fire  is  reddening  the  lower  part  of  the  hall 
Lambert  and  his  mother,  one  reading  a  newspaper 
and  the  other  a  book,  are  seated  before  the  fire. 

Lambert.    \Looking  upfront  his  ncwspaper.~\ 
Well,  yesterday  that  squint-eyed  profligate, 
John  Wilkes,  came  out  of  King's  Bench. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Who  is  he,  son  ? 

Lambert.  The  publisher  of  Number  Forty -five 
Of  the  North  Briton ;  for  which  he  was  gaoled 
And  expelled  from  Parliament  four  several  times. 

Mrs.  Lambert.   Chatterton  shouted  '  Wilkes  and  Lib- 
erty ! ' 

Lambert.  The  fool ! — and  here  are  forty-five  more 
fools, 
Who  purpose  dining  Thursday  at  The  Crown 
In  honour  of  the  demagogue's  enlargement. 
The  dinner  will  consist  of  forty -five 
Large  loaves  of  bread,  and  forty-five  pounds  each 
Of  beef,  of  veal,  of  pork,  and  roasted  pig ; 
With  bowls  of  punch  and  gallons  of  old  ale 
And  papers  of  tobacco — forty- five. 

46 


ZlDars  IRetelitte*  [act  ii. 

Mrs.  Lcunbert.   Enough  of  that :  it  jars  so  with  these 

sermons. 
Lambert.   Here  is  a  letter  telling  how  to  treat 
The  small-pox  to  preserve  the  skin  from  marks  ; 
Written  by  Mrs.  Stewart,  Racquet  Court, 
Who  lived  in  South  Carolina  many  years. 
Mrs.  Lambert.  The  subject  is  unpleasant. 
Lambert.  This  describes 

The  Friars  passing  over  the  old  bridge 
As  chronicled  in  ancient  manuscripts. 
Mrs.  Lambert.   That  is  of  interest. 
Lambert.  It  is  oddly  spelled, 

And  signed  by — Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis. 
\Reads.~\     '  On  Fridaie  was  the  time  fixed  for  passing 
the  new  brydge.     Aboute  the  time  of  tollynge  the 
tenth  clock — ' 

Enter  Footboy  yawning.  ■ 
Footboy.   The  Reverend  Thomas  Broughton,  sir,  is 

here. 
Lambert.   Let  him  come  in.  \Exit  Footboy. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Do  not  subscribe  a  farthing. 

Lambert.   Perhaps  he  seeks  advice. 
Mrs.  Lambert.  Not  at  the  house. 

Enter  Footboy  followed  by  Broughton  and 
Thistlethwaite. 
47 


act  ii.]  Ube  3Baro  of 


Lambert.    \_Rising  and  going  to  the  visitor s.~\ 
This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Vicar. — 
And  Mr.  Thistlethwaite. 

Brotighton.  I  see  you  know — 

Lambert.    The   author   of   '  The   Brilliant   Men   of 
Bristol,' 
In  which  my  life  is  traced,  is  known  to  all. 

Thistlethwaite.  Dear  Mr.  Lambert,  you  are  overkind ; 
For  what  I  wrote  of  you  and  others,  sir, 
Is  history — not  favour. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  A  noble  youth  ! 

You  both  are  welcome. 

Lambert.  Be  seated,  gentlemen. 

Broughton.  I  much  deplore  that  such  a  kindly  greeting 
Must  usher  painful  business. 

Lambert.  Painful  business? 

Broughton.  You  have,  sir,  an  apprentice, 

Lambert.  Chatterton ! 

Broughton.   Who,  from   the  lockless   coffers  of  my 
church, 
Has  taken  parchments. 

Thistlethwaite.  Of  historic  value. 

Lambert.  I'll  beat  him  for  the  theft ! 

Broughton.    [  Taking  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket.  ] 

There's  an  account, 
48 


flDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  h. 

In  Felix  Farley's  Journal  of  to-day, 

Of  how  the  Friars  passed  the  Bristol  bridge. 

Mrs.  Lambert.   We  were  about  to  read  it  when  you 
came. 

Enter  Alice,  Betty,  Dorothy,  and  Agnes 
with  bunches  of  flowers. 

Alice.   Oh,  pardon  us  ! — we  thought  you  were  alone  ; 
For  Sam  was  sleeping  soundly  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Lambert.    [Going  to  them.~\ 
Come  in,  come  in  :   you  all  know  Mr.  Broughton 
And  Mr.  Thistlethwaite.  [The girls  courtesy. 

Betty.  We  came  to  bring 

Some  Bath  buns  and  some  flowers. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Charming  girls  ! 

Go  to  the  parlour  and  amuse  yourselves 
Till  we  are  through  with  business. 

Dorothy.  May  we  go 

Into  the  garden  ? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  As  you  wish,  my  dear ; 

I'll  call  you  soon. 

Dorothy.  Oh,  do  not  be  in  haste. 

[Exeunt  girls  laughing  into  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Lambert.   How  sweet  to  be  so  loved  ! 

Thistlethwaite.  I've  seen  those  girls 

Walking  with  Chatterton  in  College  Green. 
4  49 


act  ii.]  Ubc  JSaro  of 


Mrs.  Lambert.    Why  you   alarm  me :    I   will  warn 
them,  sir. 

Lambert.   What  were  you  saying,  Vicar  ? 

Broughton.    [Pointing  to  the  newspaper. ~\     This  ac- 
count, 
Upon  the  eve  of  opening  our  new  bridge, 
Has  roused  the  City  Fathers  from  their  sleep, 
And  made  them  hungry  with  desire  to  learn 
Who  Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis  is. 

Lambert.  Who  can  he  be  ? 

Broughton.  Why,  Thomas  Chatterton. 

TJiistlethwaite.  He  took  the  manuscript  from  Redcliffe 
Church, 
And  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  the  Journal, 
As  we  can  prove  past  doubt.     He  is  my  friend  ; 
And  had  he  stolen  a  book,  a  ring,  a  purse — 
Committed  private  wrong,  I  would  have  held 
My  very  breath,  lest  it  should  form  a  word 
Of  guidance  for  suspicion  ;  but  to  steal 
The  sacred  relics  of  the  hallowed  truth — 
Our  rich  bequeathment  from  the  ages  past, 
The  birthright  of  the  future,  is  a  crime 
My  love  for  history  can  not  connive. 

Mrs.   Lambert.    Arrest   him   at   the  office,  not  the 
house. 

5° 


flDars  iRefccUffe,  [act  ii. 

Broughton.  At  neither  place,  if  he  return  the  parch- 
ments. 
Lambert.   He  shall  not  'scape  a  flogging. 
Broughton.  Be  not  rash  : 

Send  for  his  mother  and  appeal  to  her ; 
For  he  is  tempered  like  a  sword  of  fire. 
Meanwhile,  friend  Thistlethwaite  and  I  will  go 
To  Redcliffe  Church  and  search  the  coffers  there. 
Come,  Thistlethwaite. 

Lambert.  I'll  show  you  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  And  I  will  get  those  loving  girls  some 
cider. 

[Mrs.  Lambert  goes  into  the  parlour,  and  the  others 
go  out  by  the  main  entrance.     Then  the  girls,  who 
have  been  peeping  into  the  hall,  enter  from  the 
garden,  leaving  the  casement  open. 
Dorothy.  Where  can  he  be  ? 

Alice.  He  was  not  at  the  window. 

Betty.   I  saw  him  come  to  dinner. 
Agnes.   [In  a  whisper. .]  There  he  is. 

Enter  Chatterton  who  comes  slowly  down  the  stair- 
case. 
Alice.  What  is  the  matter,  poet  ? 
Chatterton.    [Looking  up.~\  Ah,  my  dears  ! 

Alice.  Your  cheeks  are  very  pale. 
5i 


act  ii.]  Ubc  IBaro  of 


Chatterton.  Bleached  by  the  moon, 

Which  steals  the  pigment  from  the  poet's  face 
And  lends  it  to  his  verse. 

Betty.  What  pretty  words  ! 

Chatterton.    I   saw   you   in   the   garden,    and   have 
brought 
An  answer  to  your  ode. 

Dorothy.  Is  our  ode  good  ? 

Chatterton.  Each  line's  a  cripple  with  a  perfect  soul. 
I  fear  the  Muse,  too  envious  of  your  beauty, 
Refused  to  grant  you  aid.     Here's  my  reply  ; 
'Tis  called  'The  Constant  Lover,'  and  is  worth 
A  hundred  kisses. 

Betty.  We  will  buy  it  then. 

Chatterton.    [Reads. ~\ 

Lady  dearest,  why  tax  me 
With  the  sin  inconstancy  ? 
That  I  ever  am  in  love 
Your  laments,  fair  lady,  prove. 
Giving  you  o'erflowing  measure, 
Still  is  left  such  boundless  treasure, 
Ever  have  I  love  to  spare 
For  a  damsel  debonair. 


Alice.  Call  you  this  constancy  ? 
52 


/iDars  IRefcclfffe,  [act  n. 

Chatterton.  I  do  forsooth  : 

Not  to  Love's  object,  but  to  Love,  my  dear. 

[Reads.  ] 

Were  I  cold  to  beauty's  grace, 
Slight  I  might  your  matchless  face  : 
It  is  only  by  compare 
Lovers  learn  to  rate  the  rare. 
'Tis  by  use  we  make  life  longer 
And  the  tender  passion  stronger ; 
So  I  dally  with  a  score 
That  I  may  adore  you  more. 

Alice.   Indeed ! 

Chatterton.  Emotions  thrive  by  exercise. 

[Meads.] 

Life  is  love  and  death  is  hating  ; 
Loving  one  is  selfish  mating  ; 
Lovers'  vows  are  ropes  of  snow 
Melting  in  an  amorous  glow  : 
Bind  my  nature  as  I  will, 
Cupid  is  its  master  still. 
Lady  mine,  then  cease  lamenting, 
For  my  future's  past  repenting. 

Alice.   Is  it  for  me  ? 
Dorothy.  For  me  ? 

Agnes.  For  me  ? 

Betty.  For  me  ? 

53 


act  ii.]  XLbc  JBaro  of 


Chatterton.  There's  Solomon  upon  the  mantelpiece; 
Two  women  claim  the  child ;  a  soldier  stands 
With  naked  sword  to  cut  the  boy  in  two  : 
Which  one  of  you  will  yield  this  baby  whole  ? 
Alice.   I  will  not  yield  ! 
Betty.  Nor  I  ! 

Agnes.  Nor  I ! 

Dorothy.  Nor  I ! 

Chatterton.     \_After  a  pause  in   which  he  acts  non- 
plussed.] 
Quarter  the  infant,  Captain  of  the  Guard  ! 

[Tears  the  manuscript  into  four  parts. 
All.  No,  no  ! 

Chatterton.  'Tis  just ;  for  all  may  read  or  none  ; 

And  each  one  shares  the  offspring  of  my  brain 
As  each  divides  my  heart. 

[Throws  the  pieces  fluttering  among  them. 
Enter  Mrs.  Lambert  from  the  parlour. 
Mrs.  Lambert.  My  innocents  ! 

What  are  you  picking  up  ? 

Chatterton.  Mere  wanton  words 

That  scratch  their  names  upon  the  tomb  of  Time. 
Mrs.  Lambert.  That's  meaningless  and  surely  means 
a  poem. 
And  here's  another  found  upon  your  desk. 

54 


/iDars  IRebcliffe.  [act  ii. 

There  is  your  stuff  !      [Tears  up  a  paper  and  throws  the 
pieces  in  his  face. .]       Come,  girls,  into  the  parlour. 
[Exeunt  all  except  Chatterton,  who  stands  motion- 
less till  they  are  gone. 
Chatterton.  Whom  has  the  vandal  slaughtered  ?      [Ex- 
amines the  bits  of  paper  on  the  floor  and  reads~\ 

'Elegy.' 
Knowing  my  wealth  of  thought,  I  spend  too  freely  : 
I'll  gather  the  remains. 

Enter  Bertha. 
Bertha.  'Tis  well  you're  here. 

Chatterton.   'Tis  well's  superlative  repeated  thrice  ! 
Your  visitation  makes  this  bed  of  pain 
Lie  soft  as  downy  eider's  nest. 

Bertha.  No  more : 

Our  bond  is  Rowley — do  not  sever  it. 
The  Catcotts,  Broughton,  Barrett,  and  my  father 
Are  now  upon  the  steps  in  earnest  speech 
About  an  article  that  has  appeared — 
Chatterton.   The  passing  of  the  bridge  ? 
Bertha.  Yes,  that  is  it ; 

And  threats  of  process  and  arrest  are  made 
Against  you,  sir,  unless  you  make  return. 
Chatterton.   And  you  would  warn  me  ? 
Bertha.  Yes. 

55 


act  ii.]  ube  38aro  of 


Chatterton.  May  they  be  blessed 

For  giving  you  occasion. — Not  a  scrap 
Of  priceless  parchment  shall  they  wrest  from  me. 
Bertha.   Be  wary,  sir ;  for  they  are  very  wroth. 
Chatterton.  No  boyish  muscles  ply  within  these  arms ; 
And  with  those  magic  darts  of  gold  and  lead 
That  quicken  love  and  hatred,  I  defy 
Jove's  thunderbolts  in  livid  lightning  forged ; 
Much  more  these  harpies.     I  am  full  of  fight ! 
Bertha.  Be  not  incensed. 

Chatterton.  '  Twas  but  a  tidal  wave 

Of  briny  anger  roaring  through  my  veins 
Like  Severn's  eagre.  \Voices  heard  from  without.] 

I  will  wait  them  here. 
Bertha.  I  do  beseech  you,  go  ! 
Chatterton.  Rome  was  well  sold 

By  Antony. — I  shall  obey  you,  lady. 

[  Chatterton  goes  up  the  staircase  and  Bertha  sits 
down  by  the  fireplace  as  Burg urn  and  George  Cat- 
cott enter  followed  by  Lambert,  Barrett,  and  Alex- 
ander Catcott. 
Burgum.  No,  Catcott,  no  :  my  aidance  I  refuse. 
First  let  me  get  my  Pedigree  complete, 
With  every  poem  of  my  songful  sires, 
Then  hale  the  boy  to  gaol. 

56 


/n>ars  IRefccltffe.  [act  ii. 

Barrett.  Your  Pedigree  ? 

Of  more  concern  are  parchments  he  withholds : 
'Turgo's  Account  of  Bristol,'  'England's  Glory,' 
'  The  Ancient  Form  of  Monies,'  views  unique 
Of  castles,  churches,  chapels,  Saxon  gates — 
All  vital  to  my  book. 

Alexander  Catcott.  And  what  are  these, 

Friend  Barrett,  to  the  things  he  may  have  found 
That  prove  the  Noachian  Deluge  ?  for  the  works 
Of  Ovid,  Lucian,  Plutarch,  and  Berosus, 
Though  heathen  writings,  testify  the  flood 
O'er  this  terraqueous  globe. 

Bertha.  And  bear  in  mind 

That  harshness  may  blot  Rowley  from  the  roll. 

Barrett.   That's  very  true ;  for  I  have  heard  him  say 
That  he  had  poems  worth  their  weight  in  gold 
The  world  must  beg  or  lose  ;  and  as  he  spoke 
His  eyes  struck  fire,  and  kindled,  and  blazed  up 
Most  wonderful ! 

Lambert.  How  shall  we  tame  the  whelp  ? 

Alexander  Catcott.   Let  us  consider :   can  you  prove 
the  theft  ? 

Lambert.   Past  doubt. 

Alexander  Catcott.   By  whom  ? 

Lambert.  By  Thistlethwaite. 

57 


act  ii.]  xi:be  Barb  0f 


George  Catcott.  The  youth 

That  in  The  Glocester  Journal  did  recount 
My  climbing  Nicholas'  spire  ?     He  would  not  lie. 

Barrett.   He  wrote  my  life. 

George  Catcott.  And  mine. 

Lambert.  And  mine. 

Alexander  Catcott.  And  mine. 

Burgnm.   And  also  mine  :   he  has  discrimination. 

Lambert.   And  wit  and  eloquence  ;  for  he  declaims 
On  every  topic  from  the  birth  of  light 
To  doomsday  darkness. 

George  Catcott.  And  he  does  it  well : 

His  words  flow  out  like  oil. 

Bertha.  And  oil-like  float 

Upon  the  surface  of  each  theme :   he  is 
Too  flaunting  of  his  learning  to  be  learned. 

Burgum.   Hush,  daughter,  hush  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  Nay,  now  I  do  recall 

No  Greek  is  taught  within  the  Colston  School, 
Which  Thistlethwaite  attended  ;  yet,  forsooth, 
He  rants  about  Euripides,  nor  knows 
That  Beta  follows  Alpha  in  the  list. 

George  Catcott.   His  sensitive  corn — the  Greek  ! 

Bertha.  Euripides, 

Tradition  says,  was  killed  by  a  pack  of  hounds. 

53 


/IDarE  IRefccliffe.  [act  ii. 

Alexander  Catcott.  What  are  we  to  infer  ? 

Bertha.  The  hounds  fed  high. 

Burgum.  Another  word,  and  I  will  send  you  home. 

Bertha.  You  gag  and  blindfold  Justice  in  your  court, 
And  then  pronounce  a  sentence  in  her  name. 

Alexander  Catcott.    [Restraining  Burgum  with  a  ges- 
ture. ] 
You  shall  be  heard  :   speak  fair  solicitor. 

Bertha.  [Rising  in  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  as  Chatter  - 
ton,  with  breast  heaving  and  eyes  dilating,  appears 
in  the  gallery  above.  ] 
My  father  will  bear  witness  that  till  now 
I  lacked  the  froward  spirit  to  o'erstep 
A  maidenly  reserve  ;  but  truth  at  times 
Is  carried  by  a  single  trembling  string 
That  knows  not  why  it  vibrates  :   hear  me,  then, 
As  one  o'ershadowed  by  a  holy  cause  ; 
For,  by  my  mother's  memory,  I  speak  truth. 

Alexander  Catcott.  They  all  shall  listen  or  be  in  con- 
tempt. 

Bertha.  What  is  the  accusation  ? — that  a  youth, 
With  swift  discernment  where  you  all  were  lag, 
Has  taken  parchments  from  abandoned  chests 
And  saved  them  to  the  world. 

Alexander  Catcott.  But  theft  is  theft. 

59 


act  ii.]  XTbe  3Baro  of 


Bertha.  Between  the  upright  letters  of  your  words 
I  see  a  monster  glaring :   what  you  brand 
Is  that  he  robbed  you  of  the  homage  due 
The  bold  explorer  of  a  buried  age, 
Who  brings  its  art  and  learning  to  the  light — 
Adding  a  page  to  knowledge  :  yea,  restores 
What  Time  has  smuggled ;  and  you  call  him  thief ! 

Lambert.   He  keeps  the  originals  unlawfully  : 
'Tis  larceny  as  bailee. 

Bertha.  Because  you  chill 

A  nature  warm  as  are  the  springs  of  Bath 
Bubbling  from  Roman  ruins  ;  lave  in  it, 
And  sluice  it  through  base  channels  till  it  'scapes 
Adown  the  Avon  to  the  lustral  sea. 
And  who  is  his  accuser  ? — one  that  shows 
Too  eager  to  wreak  justice  to  be  just : 
Himself  a  thief. 

Lambert.  Such  words  are  slanderous  ! 

Bertha.  Then  you  wrought  wilful   slander.     Yester 
night, 
Within  the  muniment  room  of  Redcliffe  Church, 
The  glib  and  slippery  Thistlethwaite  was  caught 
Rifling  the  sacred  coffers. 

Lambert.  Your  witness,  girl ! 

Bertha.  One  who  was  there — myself. 
60 


flDan?  IRefcclfffe.  [act  ii. 

Burgum.    [Starting  up.~\  How  came  you  there  ? 

Bertha.   I  am  not  now  on  trial  :   'tis  enough 
That  what  I  vouch  is  true. 

Barrett.  May  be  he  sought 

To  save  them  for  the  Vestry. 

Bertha.  Give  may-bes  scope, 

And  whom  can  you  convict  ? — not  Chatterton. 
Oh,  how  you  rush  from  reason  to  reprieve 
An  oily  rogue  because  he  flatters  you  : 
Loves  Barrett's  history  and  Lambert's  law, 
The  Vicar's  corals,  sea-shells,  bones,  and  teeth, 
That  tell  the  Mosaic  story  of  the  flood ; 
Notes  each  adventure  of  his  brother  George  ; 
And  writes  your  lives  with  scarce  a  censor-word 
To  give  laudation  credence.     Are  you  blind? 
You  seek  the  earthly  paradise  of  fame, 
Where  deeds  immortal  chant  the  doer's  praise, 
And  fly  your  only  guide — the  one  that  raised 
Old  Rowley  from  the  grave.     He  does  not  time 
The  quick  pulsation  of  his  fevered  words, 
For  worth  is  haughty  when  it  is  disprized ; 
And  he  is  young — so  young  that  I  can  plead 
As  if  he  were  my  brother.     You  may  change 
His  golden  locks  to  snakes,  his  teeth  to  tusks, 
His  glorious  eyes  to  blood-shot  orbs  of  pain, 

61 


act  ii.]  Ubc  JSart)  ot 


And  make  death  welcome  ;  but  beware  his  scorn, 
For  it  hath  power  to  turn  you  into  stone, 
The  mock  of  ages  ! — I  can  say  no  more. 

[Bursts  into  tears  and  hurries  through  the  casement 
into  the  garden  as  Chatterton,  trembling  with  emo- 
tion, disappears  from  the  gallery. 

Alexander  Catcott.  Her  flail  threshed  out  some  corn. 

Burgum.  By  God,  'twas  great ! 

Into  the  horse-pond  went  the  Vicar  first, 
Like  some  old  toper  toppling  from  the  ark ; 
Next  came  the  lawyer  sprawling  in  the  mud  ; 
And  then  the  surgeon  and  the  pewterer 
With  those  of  lesser  trades  ;  and  all  emerged 
Like  cattle  I  have  seen  on  rainy  days 
Tied  to  St.  Thomas'  Church.     [Laughs  uproariously  and 

flourishes  his  Pedigree^  It  was  the  blood 

Of  John  de  Bergham  speaking  on  her  tongue 
From  out  the  silent  past.     Had  I  but  known 
Such  eloquence  was  mine  by  right  of  birth, 
I  would  have  stood  in  Parliament  ere  this 
And  been  the  mouth  of  England. 

Lambert.    [Sarcastically .~\  Have  a  care, 

Friend  Burgum,  lest  your  grandchild  find, 
Amid  the  knightly  charges  on  his  shield, 
An  inkhorn  and  a  goose-quill. 

62 


flDarp  IRetolfffe.  [Act  ii. 

Barrett.  And  enscrolled, 

In  scrivener's  script,  '  Write  on  !  ' 

Burgum.  Write  on  ?  write  what  ? 

My  motto,  sir,  is  '  Ride  on. ' 

Barrett.  Best  dismount ; 

For  you  are  at  the  top  of  Steep  Street  now, 
And  your  high  barb  may  stumble. 

Burgum.  Is  that  sense? 

Lambert.   To  echo  John  de  Bergham,  are  you  blind  ? 

Burgum.  You  both  are  riddlers. 

Alexander  Catcott.  I  will  be  more  clear. 

If  these  old  ears  have  not  forgot  a  voice 
That  trembled  in  their  portals  years  agone, 
There  spake  upon  the  lady's  silvery  tongue 
A  nobler  spirit  than  your  Norman  sire — 
Divinely- fathered  Love. 

Burgum.    \In  anger. ,]  She  loves  him  not ! 

I  have  it  from  her  lips. 

Alexander  Catcott.  I've  heard  it  said 

Love  laughs  at  lovers'  lies,  as  well  as  locks, 
And  angels  ne'er  record  them. 

Burgum.  It  is  false  ! 

Lambert.   Yet  from  her  tale  we  might  infer  a  tryst 
Within  the  muniment  room  ;  perhaps  to  plan 
Continuance  of  your  line. 

63 


act  ii.]  Ube  3Barfc  ot 


Burgum.  I  say  'tis  false  ! 

She  is  contract  to  Rowley,  that  damned  monk 
Who  wrote  erotic  verse. 

Alexander  Catcott.  More  cause  for  fear : 

When  Cupid  and  Calliope  are  leagued, 
A  maiden's  heart  needs  more  than  Bristowe's  wall 
To  check  the  Cavaliers. 

George  Catcott.  She  praised  his  eyes. 

Alexander  Catcott.  Ah,  so  she  did ;  and  that's  de- 
notement sure 
That  they  have  darted  wildfire  through  her  own 
Upon  her  bosom's  keep,  and  tinded  flames 
The  blissful  tears  of  budding  maidenhood 
Can  not  extinguish. 

Burgum.  Damn  his  eyes  and  yours  ! 

She  loves  him  not !     I  say  she  loves  him  not ! 

Alexander  Catcott.    But  women  learn  to  love  what 
they  protect : 
'Tis  childless  motherhood. 

Burgum.    [  Walking  up  and  down  in  a  rage.~\ 

She  loves  him  not ! 

Lambert.   Has  John  de  Bergham  aged  to  iterance  ? 

Burgum.    [Pausing  and  shaking  his  finger  at  Lam- 
bert.] 
By  heaven  !  I'd  see  you  and  your  prentice  burnt, 

64 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  ii. 


Like  Sharp  and  Hales,  upon  St.  Michael's  Hill, 
Ere  blood  of  his  should  mingle  with  my  own. 

Barrett.   Does  not  your  Pedigree  proclaim  him  heir 
To  Radcliff  de  Chatterton  of  Chatterton  ?    {They  laugh. 

Alexander  Catcoti.   Enough  of  this  bear-baiting. 

Burgum.    [With  a  forced  laugh, .]  Aptly  put : 

Old  Bruin  worried  by  some  mongrel  dogs  ! 
Enter  Footboy. 

Lambert.  Well? 

Footboy.  Mr.  Horace  Walpole — 

Lambert.    [In  amazement. ~\  Horace  what? 

Footboy.   He  says  his  name  is  Walpole.  [  Yawns. 

Lambert.  Are  you  sure  ? — 

You  drowsy  dolt,  you  are  not  half  awake. 

Footboy.   I  must  sleep  day-time,  sir,  or  never  sleep ; 
For  Thomas  writes  all  night. 

Lambert.  Well,  show  him  in.      [Exit  Footboy. 

The  son  of  England's  former  Minister 
Seeks  legal  counsel. 

Alexander  Catcott.  Or  my  fossils,  sir. 

Barrett.   I  sent  him  a  prospectus  of  my  book ; 
But  we  shall  learn  what  magnet  draws  him  here. 

Burgum.    [  Waving  his  Pedigree.~\ 
Perhaps  I  hold  the  magnet  in  my  hand. 

Enter  Footboy  followed  by  Horace  Walpole. 
5  65 


act  ii.]  Ube  Batto  of 


Lambert.    [Rising  and  going  to  Aim.'] 
Welcome  to  Bristol,  most  distinguished  sir  ! 

Walpole.  This,  then,  is  Mr. — 

Lambert.  Lambert. 

Walpole.    [Puzzled. ~\  Lambert? — yes. 

Lambert.    Let  me  present  to  you  my  worthy  friends  : 
The  Reverend  Alexander  Catcott,  sir, 
Vicar  of  Temple  Church  and  author  of 
A  Treatise  on  the  Deluge  ;  William  Barrett, 
The  surgeon  and  historian  of  Bristol ; 
George  Catcott,  who  ascended  Nicholas'  steeple 
And  left  his  name  beneath  the  topmost  stone ; 
And  Henry  Burgum,  sir,  whose  Pedigree — 

Burgum.  Whose  Pedigree  runs  parallel  with  yours ; 
For  both  the  founders  of  our  families,  sir, 
Came  over  with  the  Duke  of  Normandy. 

Walpole.    England   owes   much   and   many   to    his 
Grace. 

Burgum.  I'll  call  my  daughter  in. 

\Hurries  into  the  garden. 

Walpole.  I  came  from  Bath 

This  morning  in  the  coach. 

Lambert.  Sit  near  the  fire  : 

The  day  is  chilly,  and  you  are  fatigued. 

Walpole.  I  am  not,  sir,  epuise  with  the  jaunt 
66 


flDars  IReteltffe*  [act  ii. 

From  Bath  to  Bristol,  for  the  air  was  bracing ; 
But  my  eyes  are  Ghebers  in  their  love  for  flames. — 
You  know,  I  fancy,  why  I  trespass  here. 

Lambert.   [With  assurance, .]      Entanglement  in  law? 

Walpole.  Lord  bless  you,  no  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  Were  it  not  too  presumptuous,  I 
might  ask 
Whether  your  journey,  honoured  sir,  is  due 
To  interest  in  the  Deluge  ? 

Walpole.  Deluge,  sir? 

I  drink  iced  water — there  my  interest  ends. 

Barrett.    [  With  an  air  of  confidence.  ] 
It  is  more  likely,  Vicar,  that  a  wit, 
A  man  of  letters,  patron  of  the  arts — 

Walpole.   I  beg  your  pardon  :   I  am  none  of  these. 
Enter  Burgum  and  Bertha. 

Burgum.  My  daughter,  Mr.  Walpole — Horace  Wal- 
pole. 

Walpole.    [Looking  with  evident  admiration  and  then 
bowing. ~\ 
The  fashion  is  too  formal  to  express 
My  pleasure  at  this  meeting. 

Bertha.  Thank  you,  sir. 

Burgum.   Is  she  not  truly  Norman  ? 

Bertha.    [Embarrassed.]  Father,  please. 

67 


act  ii.]  Ube  Bare  of 


Walpole.  Her  gentle  breeding  shows  in  delicate  veins, 
Like  azure  current  branching  through  the  snow. 

Lambert.    [  With  slight  irritation.] 
We  are  agog  to  serve  you,  Mr.  Walpole. 

Walpole.   My  mission  had  quite  faded  in  the  light 
Of  sudden  fortune  :   I  am  like  a  man 
Who,  stooping  for  a  stone  to  hurl  in  sport, 
Finds  in  his  path  a  cloud-begotten  pearl. 

[Makes  a  bow  to  Bertha,  which  Chatterton  observes 
as,  hat  in  hand,  he  comes  down  the  staircase. 

Burgum.   A  second  John  De  Bergham  in  the  flesh  ! 

Walpole.   A  curious  manuscript  was  sent  to  me 
By  some  old  antiquary — Chatterton. 

All.  Chatterton  ! 

[Chatterton  stops  as  his  name  is  pronounced  and 
leans  on  a  newel  head. 

Walpole.    [To  Lambert. .]  A  relative  of  yours,  perhaps. 

Lambert.   A  relative  ? — my  bound  apprentice,  sir  ; 
And  there  he  stands.      [All  turn  and  look  at  Chatterton. 

Walpole.    [Rising."]  That  boy  ? — you  surely  jest. 

Chatterton.    [Coming  down.] 
What  matter  that  I  am  not  free  and  old  ? 
The  purest  pearl  upon  Spain's  tawny  breast 
Was  found  by  a  negro  child. 

Walpole.    [Haughtily.]  I  must  refuse — 

68 


/!Dar£  IRefccliffe.  [act  n. 

Bertha.  Will  you  not  listen  ? 

Walpole.  \_B owing gracioicsly ,~\  If  you  so  request. 

Chatterton.  You  prate  of  pearls  ;   I  have  the  flawless 
stones 
That  flamed  upon  the  breast-plate  of  a  priest : 
A  sardius  glowing  like  the  setting  sun, 
Firing  the  soul  and  banishing  all  fear  ; 
A  topaz  from  the  alabaster  mines 
Of  Jove's  great  city,  quickening  every  sense  j 
A  Burmah  ruby  ripened  in  the  earth, 
Clouding  its  lustre  at  approach  of  ill, 
And  gleaming  crimson  in  the  murkiest  night ; 
An  Emerald  flashing  like  the  lightning's  play 
Among  green  olive  trees  ;  a  saphire  star  ; 
A  Brahmin-diamond  lucid  as  the  dew, 
Refulgent  as  the  rays  of  orient  sun, 
And  cool  as  evening  tempered  by  the  moon  ; 
A  ligure  brilliant  as  the  eye  of  lynx  ; 
An  agate,  like  the  memory,  holding  aye 
The  imaged  beauty  of  a  woodland  scene ; 
An  amethyst  that  quells  the  god  of  wine  ; 
A  beryl  from  Egyptian  mummy-pit, 
Wearing  the  verdant  livery  of  the  sea ; 
An  onyx  from  the  finger-tip  of  Love ; 
And  last  a  jasper  with  these  dazzling  gems  ; 

69 


act  ii.]  JLbc  Baro  of 


Each  catching  fire  and  colour  from  the  rest ; 
All  ranged  by  fiat  in  four  tribal  rows, 
And  set  in  gold  in  their  enclosings,  sir. — 
Contest  another  figure,  if  you  please. 

Walpole.  A  span  of  tinsel — not  a  word  of  sense  ! 
Chatterton.  I  borrowed  words  from  Exodus. 
Walpole.  They  began 

'  All  ranged  by  fiat — ' 

Chatterton.  No,  those  words  were  mine. 

Shall  I  close  up  my  casket  and  depart, 
Or  will  you  view  one  jewel  ? 

Bertha.    \_Eagerly.~\  Show  him  one. 

ChattertoJi.    \Taking  a  manuscript  from  his  pocket. ~\ 
This  is  the  Ode  to  Freedom  Rowley  wrote ; 
'Tis  from  his  Tragedy  of  '  Godwin,'  sir. 
[Reads."] 

When  Freedom,  drest  in  blood-stained  vest, 

To  every  knight  her  war-song  sung, 
Upon  her  head  wild  weeds  were  spread, 
A  gory  anlace  by  her  hung. 
She  danced  on  the  heath  ; 
She  heard  the  voice  of  Death. 

Bertha.    \_To  Walpole. ~\      Is  that  not  masterful  ? 
Walpole.  No  modern  bard — 

Not  even  Gray — could  paint  so  weird  a  picture. 

70 


/iDars  IRefcclfffe.  [act  ii. 

Burgum.  You  must  read  Bergham's  'The  Romance 

of  the  Knight.  * 
Alexander  Catcott.  'Tis  like  a  ballad-dance  in  ancient 

Greece, 
Where  motion,  words,  and  music  blend  like  flames. 
Chatterton.    [Reading  with  a  strange  smile. ~\ 

Pale-eyed  Affright,  his  heart  of  silver  hue, 
In  vain  assailed  her  bosom  to  acale — 

Walpole.  Acale  ?     I  do  not  know  the  word. 
Chatterton.    \_Rebukingly .]  To  chill ! 

Burgum.   De  Bergham  wrote  much  harder  words  than 

that. 
Chatterton.    [Continuing  his  reading. ~\ 

Pale-eyed  Affright,  his  heart  of  silver  hue, 

In  vain  assailed  her  bosom  to  acale  ; 
She  heard  onflemed  the  shrieking  voice  of  Woe 
And  sadness  in  the  owlet  shake  the  dale. 
She  shook  her  burled  spear, 

On  high  she  jeste  her  shield ; 
Her  foemen  all  appear, 
And  flizz  along  the  field. 

Walpole.   'Tis  well  sustained. 

Bertha.  And  will  be  to  the  close. 

7* 


act  ii.]  Zfte  Barb  of 


Chatterton.    [Beading  with  increased  force.  ] 

Power  with  his  heafod  straught  into  the  skies, 
His  spear  a  sunbeam  and  his  shield  a  star, 
Alike  twa  brendyng  gronfyres  rolls  his  eyes, 
Chafts  with  his  iron  feet  and  sounds  to  war. 
She  sits  upon  a  rock, 

She  bends  before  his  spear, 
She  rises  from  the  shock 
Wielding  her  own  in  air ! 

Walpole.  The  bard  has  reached  his  pitch  and  he  must 

stoop  ! 
Bertha.  He  will  not  stoop — he'll  stop  ere  he  will 

stoop  ! 
Chatterton.    [Almost  in  a  frenzy.  ~\ 

Hard  as  the  thunder  doth  she  drive  it  on  ; 

Wit  skilly  wimpled  guides  it  to  his  crown ; 
His  long  sharp  spear,  his  spreading  shield  is  gone ; 
He  falls,  and  falling  rolleth  thousands  down. 
War,  gore-faced  War,  by  Envy  burled  arist, 

His  fiery  helm  ynodding  to  the  air, 
Ten  bloody  arrows  in  his  straining  fist — 

Walpole.  Magnificent  !     Read  on  ! 
Alexander  Catcott.  Read  on  ! 

Bertha.  Read  on  ! 

72 


/iDars  IRefccliffe,  [act  ii. 

Chatterton.   I've  read  it  all :   the  line  overwhelmed 
his  fancy. 

Walpole.  You  well  may  call  it  jewel ;  for  it  glows 
Like  moon  new-risen  on  a  battlefield. 

Chatterton.   Or  like  the  blood-red  ruby  Harry  wore 
Upon  his  crest  at  Agincourt. 

Walpole.  Enough  ! 

Chatterton.   Rub  it  with  ruby  tried  ;  and  if  it  break, 
It  is  a  garnet  coloured  like  a  bull 
And  set  with  copper  foil. 

Bertha.  It  will  not  break. 

Barrett.    *  The  Battle  of  Hastings  '  is  a  livelier  stone. 

Bertha.   That's  Rowley's,  too  ! 

Walpole.  This  gem  can  not  be  matched. 

Alexander  Catcott.   Save  by  the  Greeks. 

Burgum.  And  John  de  Bergham,  sir. 

Walpole.  Why  did  you  write  to  me  ? 

Chatterton.  Think  not  I  seek 

To  fatten  you  for  food  with  flattery. 
You  are  a  gentleman  reputed  wise, 
And  have  a  private  press  at  Strawberry  Hill : 
If  Rowley's  poems  please  you,  publish  them  ; 
If  not,  the  Hotwells  will  repay  your  ride. 

[Laughter  of  girls  heard  from  the  parlour. 
Enter  Footboy  excitedly. 
73 


act  ii.]  Ube  3Bar&  ot 


Footboy.  It  is  the  Mayor — Thomas  Harris,  sir ! 

Lambert.  What  if  it  were  the  King,  you  Bedlamite  ? 
Enter  the  Mayor. 

Mayor.   I  am  informal,  for  I  am  in  haste  : 
The  Corporation  dine  me  at  The  Bush, 
And  it  is  famous  for  its  turtle  soup. 

Lambert.  You  can  not  come  too  soon  or  stay  too  long, 
Most  honoured  sir. 

Mayor.  That's  what  the  landlords  say. 

Footboy.    [After  drawing  attention  by  eyeing  the  Mayor 
admiringly .]    He  looks  like  Stephens  'the  nailer! ' 

Lambert.  Out,  you  fool ! 

And  do  not  show  your  face  again  this  day. 

\_Exit  Footboy. 
Perhaps,  dear  sir,  you  came  to  meet  my  guest, 
Who  will  be  glad — 

Mayor.  I've  met  him  or  shall  miss  him  ; 

I  must  divulge  my  mission  and  away. 

Lambert.   If  you  have  need  of  pilot  in  the  law, 
The  honour  in  your  service  is  my  fee. 

Mayor.  Do  you  know  Thomas  Chatterton  ? 

Lambert.    \In  anger. ~\  Again  ! 

Mayor.  Bright  said  he  thought  he  was  your  partner, 
sir. 

Lambert.  He  is  my  prentice,  and  is  smiling  there. 
74 


flDars  IRefccliffe,  [act  ii. 

Mayor.    \_To  Lambert  after  staring  at  Chatterton.~\ 
The  time  for  joking  is  at  table,  sir, 
Where  tipple  wets  dry  wit :   'tis  foul  to  ask 
A  sober  man  to  laugh  at  silly  sallies. 
•    Lambert.   No  other  Chatterton  is  known  to  me. 

Mayor.     \_Beckoning  to    Chatterton, .]       Come    here; 
come  here  ! 
\Chatterton  looks  up  the  stair  case. ~\   What  are  you  look- 
ing for  ? 

Chatterton.  Your  poodle,  sir. 

Lambert.  This  insolence  must  cease. 

Mayor.   Do  you  write  verse  for  Felix  Farley's  Jour- 
nal? 

Chatterto7i.   Some  vagrant  lines. 

Mayor.  The  penmanship's  the  same  ! — 

Did  you  describe  a  grand  procession  formed 
To  celebrate  the  birth  of  Bristol's  bridge? 

Chatterton.   I  fathered  it. 

Mayor.  Then  you're  the  one  I  seek. 

The  Aldermen,  the  Councillors,  and — Mayor, 
In  hasty  convocation,  have  decreed 
To  open  our  new  bridge  the  selfsame  way. 

Chatterton.   Well,  they  have  my  assent. 

Mayor.   [  Taking  out  a  newspaper.  ]        You  saucy  boy  ! 
Do  you  know  more  than  you  have  here  set  down  ? 

75 


act  ii.]  XTbe  38aro  of 


Chattcrton.  Like  creamy  Cheddar,  sir,  I  sell  the  curd 
And  keep  the  whey  of  thought. — A  little  more. 

Mayor.   Then  meet  me  at  my  house  to-morrow  noon 
In  St.  Augustine's  back. 

Chatterton.  I  shall  be  there. 

Mayor.  We  must  have  trappings,  minstrels,  rod,  and 
all, 
As  in  that  bygone  age  :   'twill  be  sublime  ! — 
And  now  for  dinner  with  the  turtle  soup. 

Enter  Broughton  and  Thistlethwaite. 

Broughton.  This  is  a  timely  meeting,  Master  Mayor  : 
We  have  discovered  what  will  interest  you 
And  many  sitting  here. 

Mayor.  You  must  be  brief: 

The  tables  groan,  and  I  am  tender-hearted. 

\_Rubs  his  stomach. 

Broughton.  [  To  Chatterton  who  turns  scornfully  away.  ] 
You  must  not  go — you  are  the  one  accused. 

Chatterton.    \_Turning.~\      Accused  of  what  ? 

Broughton.  Of  many  things  in  one. 

Chatterton.   Heigh-ho,  up  we  go  !  we'll  have  a  scene 
in  court. 

Broughton.  Now,  Thistlethwaite,  begin. 

Thistlethwaite.  It  grieves  me  much 

To  expose  a  friend. 

76 


ZlDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  ii. 

Chatterton.  Observe  the  ugly  mouth 

Of  that  fellow  with  a  lisp  within  his  name. 
Could  anything  as  beautiful  as  Truth 
Issue  from  such  a  pit  ? — Present  your  case. 

Thistlethwaite.    To    prove  wrong-doing  is   to  anger 
guilt ; 
But  I  am  so  reluctant  in  my  duty, 
That  taunts  bestir  compassion.      Facts  will  speak ; 
Nor  shall  they  be  enforced  by  word  of  mine. 
I  do  afhrm,  and  am  prepared  to  prove, 
That  all  of  Thomas  Rowley's  works  were  writ 
By  Thomas  Chatterton.  [General  consternation. 

Chatterton.    [Calmly. ~\  Produce  your  proof. 

Thistlethwaite.     [After   taking   a  piece  of  ochre,    a 
pounce-box,    a   bottle,    and    a  parchment  from    a 
satchel.  ] 
Here  are  the  ochre,  lead,  and  charcoal  used 
For  forging  those  antiques  in  Redcliffe  Church  ; 
And  here's  '  A  Song  to  yElla  '  partly  aged. — 
What  say  you,  Rowley,  to  this  evidence  ? 

Chatterton.  You  can  not  prove  a  calf  leaped  o'er  a  barn 
By  leading  out  the  calf :  show  us  the  leap. 

Thistlethwaite.    [Triumphantly  turning  to  the  others 
who  are  talking  and  gesticulating  wildly. ,] 
And  what  say  you,  my  friends  ? 

77 


act  ii.]  Zbc  Baro  of 


Barrett.  You  are  a  fool ! 

Burgutn.   A  lunatic  at  large  ! 

George  Catcott.  A  drivelling  dunce  ! 

Walpole.  A  knave  without  the  cunning  to  conceal 
His  native  baldness  with  attorney's  wig, 
Who  fain  would  foist  a  fairy  tale  on  me. 

Thistlethwaite.  My  motive,  sir,  was  honest,  be  assured. 

Walpole.  Write  Rowley's  works? — absurd  ! 

Burgum.  Preposterous ! 

Barrett.     Write    Rowley's   works — write    Chaucer's 
tales  ! 
Were  he  to  swear  it  I  should  swear  he  lied. 
'Twould  prove  my  book  a  hoax — it  would,  by  God  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  The  boy  has  rarest  genius  ;  mark 
you  that. 

Barrett.   He  may  have  made  the  Burgum  Pedigree. 

Burgum.    [Jumping  to  his  feet. ~\ 
The  Burgum  Pedigree  ? — you  quacking  goose  ! 
[Then  turning  to  Thistlethwaite .] 
And  you — you  braying  colt  of  some  wild  ass  ! 
Make  of  your  skull  a  fishing-pot  for  eels. 
The  Heralds'  College  shall  attest  my  birth. 

Mayor.  [Holding  up  the  newspaper  as  the  situation 
dawns  on  him  ]  Does  he  allege  that  Chatterton 
wrote  this  ? 

78 


flDars  IRefccltffe.  [act  ii. 

\_Barrett  nods  assent. ~\ 

By  currant  dumplings  and  a  bit  of  hash, 

I'll  clap  him  in  the  madhouse  for  his  speech  ! 

Lambert.  Vicar,  I  marvel  that  yourself  believed 
In  such  a  fable. 

Broughton.  I  had  not  read  the  works. 

\Then  to  Chatterton.^ 
What  purpose  did  the  lead  and  ochre  serve  ? 

Chatterton.    To   overpaint    the   damning   bloom    of 
youth  : 
To  give  my  skin  the  parchment  hue  of  age 
And  mark  deep  wrinkles,  sir.     If  not  for  that, 
Make  your  surmise :  we  are  not  now  in  France 
Where  the  accused  must  work  his  own  undoing. 

Bertha.   He  may  have  used  them  to  make  copies,  sir. 

Burgum.   That's  true,  my  girl. 

Walpole.  'Tis  sure  :  a  woman's  wit 

Has  solved  the  puzzle. 

Broughton.    \To   This  tlethw  ait e.~\      Make  the  graver 
charge. 

Thistlcthwaitc.  [  Taking  a  manuscriptfrom  the  satchel.  ] 
This  document  was  found  within  a  coffer. 

Broughton.    \_To  Chatterton  who  s?ni/es.~\ 
You  deem  it  droll ;  but  'tis  as  libellous 
As  Number  Forty-five  that  gaoled  John  Wilkes. 

79 


act  ii.]  Ube  JBarfc  of 


[Enter  from  the  parlour  Mrs.   Lambert  and  the 
girls  laughing.     Lambert  motions  to  them  not  to 
interrupt  the  reading. 
Thistlethwaite.    [Reads.] 

This  is  the  latest  Will  and  Testament 
Of  Thomas  Chatterton  whose  life  is  spent. 

Lambert.  What  can  a  pauper  leave  ? 

Chatterton.  His  body,  sir. 

Thistlethwaite.    [Reading.'] 

Written  in  great  distress,  but  not  in  fear, 
This  fourteenth  day  of  April,  the  tenth  year 
Of  George  the  Third,  our  wooden-headed  king, 
Who  to  the  bagpipes  foots  the  Highland  Fling. 

Barrett.  Treason  ! 

George  Catcott.    Were  this   disclosed,   he  would  be 

hanged  ! 
Thistlethwaite.    [Reading.] 

To  Thomas  Broughton  I  bequeath  my  eyes, 
That  see  the  figured  truth  in  literal  lies — 
Damned  narrow  notions  tending  to  disgrace 
The  boasted  reason  of  the  human  race. 

[All  except  Broughton  laugh. 
Broughton.  Profane  and  blasphemous  ! 
80 


/IDars  IRebcltffe*  [act  ii. 

Alexander  Caicott.    [Smiling.]         Not  that,  if  true. 
Thistlethwaite.    [Reading.  ] 

To  Vicar  Catcott,  all  my  bones  and  blood, 
To  fill  his  cabinet  and  to  swell  his  flood  ; 
And  to  his  cat-like  brother,  my  toe-nails, 
That  he  may  climb  until  his  courage  fails. 

[All  except  the  Catcotts  and  Broughton  laugh. 
Alexander  Catcott.   'Tis  sinful  to  scoff  the  Deluge. 
George  Catcott.  Or  my  climb. 

Thistlethwaite.    [Reading.] 

To  William  Barrett  I  bequeath  my  brain — 
The  primal  part  of  it  when  split  in  twain — 
That  he  on  printing  may  not  waste  his  cash  ; 
For,  save  what  Rowley  wrote,  his  book  is  trash. 

[All  except  Barrett,  the  CrUotts,  and  Broughton  laugh. 
Barrett.  The  snarling  cur  !  to  call  my  history  trash, 
And  flatter  Rowley.     Curse  his  impudence  ! 
Thistlethwaite.   [Reading.] 

To  harsh  John  Lambert  I  assign  my  liver, 

To  cleanse  the  bilious  blood  that  wronged  the  giver. 

Lambert.  A  viper  I  have  warmed  upon  my  breast ! 
Thistlethwaite.    [Reading.] 


act  ii.]  xrbe  3Baro  of 


To  Thistlethwaite  I  leave  my  candid  tongue, 
Which  sings  unwisely,  but  has  never  sung 
A  whining  psalm  to  sanctify  my  hate, 
Or  petty  paean  pandering  to  the  great. 

I  pardon  him  those  most  unchristian  lines. 

Mayor.  This  is  most  humourous,  but  my  dinner  waits. 
Broughton.  Be  patient ;  it  will  take  a  serious  turn. 
Thistlethwaite.    [Beading.] 

To  our  fat  Mayor,  who  fain  would  be  a  knight, 
I  leave  my  stomach  and  my  appetite  ; 
And  when  he  snores  in  church,  like  hog  o'erfed, 
I  bid  the  sacrist  smite  him  on  the  head. 

[All  except  those  satirised  laugh  ;  Bur  gum  laughing 
more  loudly  than  any. 
Mayor.    [Sputtering  with  indignation.] 
Smite  me  upon  the  head,  you  parish  brat ! 
And  do  you  think  I  would  accept  from  you 
That  thimble-belly  in  exchange  for  this? 
[Slaps  his  paunch  proudly  and  turns  angrily  to  Brough- 
ton.] 
Is  it  for  this  you  kept  me  from  the  table  ? 
By  turtles'  ghosts  ! — 

Broughton.  The  end  is  very  near. 

Thistlethwaite.    [Beading. ] 
82 


/Fl>ars  IRefccltffe.  [act  ii. 


To  Henry  Burgum  I  bequeath  my  scorn 

Of  ignoble  men  that  are  most  nobly  born, 

My  Latin,  modesty,  and  ancient  name, 

To  snatch  his  blustering  ignorance  from  shame. 

Burgum.      [Waving  his   cane   and  starting  toward 
Chatter  ton. ~\ 
My  blustering  ignorance  !     I'll  cudgel  you  ! 

Bertha.    [Running  to  her  father  and  restraining  him.  ] 
Father  !   father  !   'tis  but  a  boyish  fling  ; 
Be  not  so  foolish,  or  you'll  prove  it  just. 

Burgum.    [Returning  to  his  chair. ~\ 
An  upstart  to  a  man  of  quality  ! 

Thistlethwaite.    [Reading. ~\ 

To  dear  Tom  Phillips  I  entrust  my  heart, 
Ere  to  the  land  of  shadows  I  depart, 
That  he  may  have  this  motto  graved  thereon — 
Brief  as  my  life — '  Alas,  poor  Chatterton  ! ' 

Mayor.    [While  the  others  fume  with  rage.~\ 
'Tis  treason  to  His  Majesty,  the  King  ! 
Lambert.   And  libel  on  us  all ! 

Barrett.  What  shall  be  done  ? 

Burgum.  Monstrous ! 

Broughton.  Take  him  before  a  magistrate. 

Enter  Mrs.  Chatterton. 
83 


act  ii.]  XTbe  3Bar&  of 


Mrs.  Chatterton.    Dear  Mr.   Lambert,  did  you  send 
for  me  ? — 
0  Thomas  !  what  is  this  ? 

Chatterton.  'Tis  nothing,  mother  : 

A  potent  star,  lord  of  the  house  of  wealth, 
Forbade  a  prison  cell. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.    [Wildly. ~\  A  prison  cell? 

Lambert.   Madam,  your  son  has  grossly  libelled  us  ; 
And  we  propose  to  punish  him  by  law. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  You  are  not  guilty,  Thomas  ? 

Chatterton.  Mother,  no. 

Lambert.  A  judge  and  jury  shall  determine  that. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   Oh,  do  not  drag  him,  sir,  before  a 
court ! 

Bertha.  Be  merciful ! 

Barrett.  He  does  not  merit  mercy. 

Alexander  Catcott.   That  is  not  true. 

Broughton.  Be  firm. 

Lambert.  I  will  not  swerve. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  O  Mr.  Lambert,  it  would  kill  my 
son  ! 
Upon  my  knees — 

Chatterton.    [Restraining  her.~\      No,  mother,  not  to 
him. 
There  is  no  mercy  Mary  Redcliffe  holds 

84 


/IDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  ii. 

Could  make  me  kneel  to  man ;  and  I  would  kneel 
Ere  you  should,  mother. 

Lambert.  Now,  lest  he  decamp, 

I  must  place  him  in  proper  custody. 

[Rises  to  make  the  arrest,  and  Chatterton,  pulling 
back  the  ruffles  from  his  wrists,  prepares  for  a 
struggle,  while  his  mother  clings  to  him  in  terror. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.     O  Thomas  !  Thomas  ! — Mr.  Lam- 
bert, mercy ! 

Bertha.     Hear  what  he  has  to  say  in  his  defence  ! 

Walpole.   I  must  uphold  the  lady. 

Alexander  Catcott.  Let  him  answer. 

Chatterton.    [Stepping  forward  and  standing  free.'] 
The  Will  is  mine  :   'twas  filched  from  Mary  Redcliffe. 
I  wrote  the  thing  in  sport  for  my  own  eyes, 
To  please  my  humour  and  to  ease  my  mind ; 
And  when  the  fit  of  satire  is  upon  me, 
I  spare  nor  friend  nor  foe. — Our  thoughts  are  free, 
Our  pens  are  free  in  secret  to  record  them. 
'Twas  harmless  as  a  tigress  in  her  lair 
Suckling  her  playful  cubs ;  if  not  so  now, 
Let  your  full  censure  fall  upon  the  one 
Who  forced  it  from  its  natural  retreat. — 
It  is  not  libellous  ;  but  suppose  it  were  : 
The  crime  is  publishing,  not  writing  it 

85 


act  ii.]  Ube  Bart)  of 


With  no  intent  to  print — and  he's  the  libeller. 
We  are  on  English  soil,  my  merry  men, 
And  that  is  English  law  ! 

Broughton.    [To  Lambert, .]  Is  that  the  law ? 

Lambert.   It  is  the  law ;  for  now  I  do  recall 
'Tis  held  that  publication  must  be  shown, 
Or  prosecution  falls.      [Takes  a  paper  from  the  table- 
drawer  and  goes  to  the  fireplace.  ~\     But  I  will  burn 
The  Indenture  of  Apprenticeship  made  void 
By  his  misconduct  and  his  obdurate  heart ! 

[Lights  the  paper  and  holds  it  up  flaming. 
Chatterton.   My  bonds  are  burning.      [  Then  smiling 
sweetly  as  the  ashes  fall.  ]    They  are  all  consumed.  — 
Dear  mother,  let  us  go  away  together. 

[Puts  his  arm  round  his  mother,  and  they  go  out  of 
the  archway  as  the  curtain  descends. 


86 


flDars  IRefcclitfe.  [act  hi. 


ACT  THIRD. 

Scene. — A  Street  in  Redcliffe,  Bristol.  At  the  left  is 
the  North  Porch  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  with  steps 
leading  to  the  entrance ;  at  the  right  is  the  Old  Fox 
Inn,  with  a  table  and  chairs  near  the  doorway.  At 
the  back  centre  is  Redcliffe  Gate,  through  which  are 
seen  quaint,  gabled  houses.  On  the  rise  of  the  cur- 
tain, Chatterton  is  discovered  writing  at  the  table 
before  the  inn.  As  the  organ  sounds  and  the  people 
begin  to  come  fro?n  the  church,  he  throws  down  the 
quill,  folds  the  manuscript,  and  puts  it  into  his 
pocket.  Then  Betty,  Agnes,  Dorothy,  and  Alice 
enter  from  the  porch. 

Alice.  There  is  our  constant  lover  ! 
Chatterton.    [Rising  and  bowing.~\  Ever  yours. 

Alice.  A  husband's  letter ;  for  a  lover's  note 
Closes  with  '  love  and  kisses. ' 

Betty.  Try  again. 

Chatterton.    Hail   nymphs   as  radiant   as  the   irised 
spray 
Skirting  the  salt-sea  breakers  ! 

87 


act  hi.]  ubc  Baro  of 


Alice.  That  is  better. 

Agnes.  You  naughty  poet,  you  were  not  at  service. 

Chatterton.   A  sermon  preached  to  sanctify  a  sport 
Smacks  of  a  barbarous  age. 

Agnes.  What  sport  ? 

Dorothy.  What  sport  ? 

Chatterton.    The  sport   to-day — the  opening  of  the 
bridge. 

Alice.  Why  do  you  call  it  sport  ? — The  Vicar  said 
It  will  be  a  touching  and  a  solemn  sight. 

Chatterton.   And  so  it  will ;  but  Chaucer's  shade  will 
smile 
When  Bristol  rouses  to  her  cats  and  dogs 
To  ape  a  pristine  pageant. 

Alice.  For  this  pomp, 

You  have  neglected  us. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  for  two  weeks 

I  have  been  tricking  out  the  burghers,  dear, 
With  garments  such  as  the  Brystowans  wore 
When  christening  their  new  bridge  at  Eastertide. 
I'll  make  the  richest  progress  of  Queen  Bess 
Appear  a  march  of  rags. — Wait  till  you  see 
George  Catcott  in  a  goat's  skin  and  the  Mayor 
Astride  a  white  horse  dight  with  sable  trappings, 
Waving  a  golden  rod. 

88 


flDarp  IRefcclfffe.  [act  hi. 

Betty.  Won't  he  look  grand  ! 

Alice.   Would  you  had  never  found  that  parchment, 
Tom  ; 
For  it  has  robbed  us  of  a  dozen  songs. 

Agnes.  I  wish  so,  too. 

Dorothy.  And  so  do  I. 

Betty.  And  I. 

Chatterton.   I  still  am  young. 

Alice.  What  were  you  writing  there  ? 

Chatterton.   A  farewell  ode  to  Mary  Redcliffe,  Alice ; 
I  leave  to-day  for  London. 

All.  Oh ! 

Alice.  You  jest ! 

Enter  Lambert  and  his  Mother  from  the  church. 

Chatterton.   '  Tis  true  :   the  coach  this  afternoon  will 
take 
Your  songster  in  its  basket. 

Betty.  I  shall  weep  ! 

Dorothy.   I  know  I  shall. 

Agnes.  Alice  is  weeping  now  ! 

Chatterton.   Heaven  bless  you  all ;  for  you  have  been 
to  me 
What  glades  in  forests  are. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  O  John,  look  there  ! — 

Come  here,  my  dears ;  you  do  not  know  that  boy. 


act  hi.]  Ubc  Baro  of 


Lambert.  He  barely  'scaped  a  prison. 

Chatterton.  Sir,  you  lie. 

Lambert.    [Raising  his  stick.~\ 
Withdraw  those  words,  or  I  will  strike  you  down  ! 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Be  careful,  John  ! 

Alice.  O  Mr.  Lambert — no  ! 

Chatterton.   But  touch  me,  sir,  to  make  the  battery 
yours, 
And  I  will  seize  you  by  that  throat  of  clay 
And  choke  you  till  your  venomed  tongue  will  crawl 
Like  an  adder  from  its  hole. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Come,  John  ;  come,  girls  ; 

For  I  see  Murder  glittering  in  his  eyes. 

Lambert.   Your  end  will  be  the  gallows. 

Chatterton.  Best  pass  on. 

Mrs.  Lambert.    Did  you  ere  see  a  more  ungrateful 
wretch  ? 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Lambert,  Lambert,  and  the  girls. 

Chatterton.  Footpads  infest  the  cross-roads  of  my  life  ; 
And  I  must  fight  them  even  in  my  sleep. 

Enter  from  the  porch  Phillips,  Mrs.  Chatterton, 
and  Mary. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   There's  Thomas  waiting  for  us. 

Chatterton.    [Going  to  her.~\  My  own  mother, 

You  make  me  feel  abashed. 

90 


/iDars  IRefccliffe,  [act  hi. 

Mary.  I  know  the  why  : 

We  left  Miss  Burgum  with  your  Uncle  Richard  ; 
I  think  they  went  up  to  the  muniment  room. 

Mrs.  Chatierton.    I  am  not  jealous,  Thomas,  yet  at 
times 
I  feel  so  home-sick  for  the  little  boy 
That  had  no  word  but  mother  on  his  lips, 
And  could  not  walk  without  me. 

Chatierton.    [Putting  his  arm  round  her.~\      Mother, 
dear, 
I  can  not  walk  without  you  now.    Each  twinge  of  pain, 
Flitting  across  your  features,  gives  to  me 
A  tremor  of  alarm  ;  each  print  of  care 
Leaves  impress  of  remorse ; — why,  every  cloud 
That  hovers  o'er  your  face  dusks  all  my  joy  ; 
And  I  watch  you  more  closely  than  you  dream. — 
Alas  !  there  is  a  shadow  on  your  brow. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.    It  is   the  thought  of  parting  with 

you,  Tom. 
Chatterton.  Cold  Saturn  glared  from  the  ascendant, 
mother, 
When  this  brave  question  in  my  mind  was  born  ; 
But  bid  me  stay,  and  I  will  fight  in  Bristol. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  You  are  a  good  son,  say  they  what 
they  may. 

91 


act  in.]  Ube  3Bar&  ot 


Chatterton.  Tell  mother,  Phillips,  it  is  for  the  best. 
God  knows  that  fame  is  not  so  dear  to  me 
As  the  one  that  gave  me  birth. 

Phillips.  'Tis  for  the  best : 

'Twill  give  him  tribes  and  tribute  for  his  work ; 
And  I  will  stake  my  life  upon  its  worth. 

Chatterton.    Oh,  I  could  fall  down  here  upon  my 
knees, 
Heap  ashes  on  my  head,  and  sackcloth  wear 
For  my  ingratitude  in  cursing  Fate  ! — 
Three  beings  on  this  earth,  and  each  one  mine 
Through  glory  or  dishonour  to  the  grave  ; 
No  need  of  reason — not  a  doubt  to  kill  ! 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  You  must  write  often,  Thomas. 

Chatterton.  Every  coach 

Shall  be  a  herald  of  my  triumph,  mother. 
And  when  the  stars  allow  me  to  unfrock 
And  own  the  lovely  children  of  my  brain, 
You  shall  not  teach  or  stitch  a  tick  of  time ; 
Mary  shall  realise  her  dreams  of  dress  ; 
And  Phillips  shall  not  waste  his  precious  prime 
On  the  witless  urchins  of  the  Colston  School. 
We'll  have  a  place  beside  the  gliding  Thames, 
As  calm  and  peaceful  as  the  downy  swans 
Floating  reflected  on  its  heaveless  breast — 

92 


/IDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

A  cottage  covered  o'er  with  ivy  vines, 
Lilacs  and  woodbines  and  a  hawthorn  hedge, 
Huge  oaks  that  root  in  ages  overgrown, 
And  our  own  sweep  of  sward. 

Phillips.  '  Tis  likely,  Tom  ; 

But  be  not  sickened  by  a  hope  deferred. 

Chatterton.  What  hidden  meaning  does  your  tone  be- 
tray? 

Phillips.    I  fear  that  ere  the  world  gives  Rowley's 
songs 
The  fervent  praise  it  can  not  well  unsay, 
You  must  tell  Walpole  Rowley  is  a  myth. 

Chatterton.  Why  must  I,  Phillips  ? 

Phillips.  Burgum  goes  to  London, 

At  Walpole' s  urgent  counsel,  to  remove 
The  doubt  cast  on  his  Pedigree  and  Arms  ; 
And  once  the  Heralds'  College  sees  them,  Tom, 
Suspicious  eyes  will  scan  the  Rowley  works 
And  prove  them  to  be  yours. 

Chatterton.  When  does  he  go  ? 

Phillips.  The  early  part  of  August. 

Chatterton.  Four  long  months  ! 

I'll  be  prepared  before  that  distant  day ; 
Why,  ere  the  coach  rolls  over  Marlborough  Downs, 
A  method  will  be  sprouting  in  my  mind. 

93 


act  hi.]  Ube  JBaro  of 


Mrs.  Chatterton.  What  method,  Tom  ? 

Chatterton.  The  method  of  unhooding. 

Four  months  is  long  enough  with  time  to  spare 
For  Rowley's  fame,  were  not  a  verse  composed. 

Phillips.    The  Bard  of  Avon  scarce  could  work  so 
fast. 

Chatterton.  There  are  two  Bards  of  Avon,  Will  and 
Tom, 
And  each  one  has  his  river. — Happy  thought ! 
I  have  the  method  :   I  will  write  a  play, 
In  which  a  youth  shall  follow  in  my  course  ; 
Have  Garrick  act  it  when  old  Walpole's  present ; 
And  doff  my  cowl  with  grace. 

Mary.  Why  use  a  play  ? 

Chatterton.   Walpole  is  prejudiced,  capricious,  vain, 
But  sensitive  withal ;  and  a  device 
So  old  and  delicate  will  please  his  taste  ; 
O'ercream  the  prickle  of  his  nettled  pride  ; 
And,  deftly  done,  may  lift  me  up  so  high 
That  the  step  to  Rowley  will  appear  so  slight, 
His  gouty  foot  will  mount  it  without  pause. 
And  more  than  this — there  is  Miss  Burgum  now  ! 

Mary.   She  is  taking  leave  of  uncle  in  the  porch. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   Come,  Mr.  Phillips ;  we  are  in  the 
way. 

94 


/iDars  TRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

Chatterton.  Forgive  me,  mother  ;  I'll  be  at  the  house 
Ere  the  procession  starts. 

Mary.  I  send  a  kiss. 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   Be  silent,  Mary. — Thomas,  bear  in 
mind 
That  Chatterton' s  a  nobler  name  than  Burgum. 

Chatterton.   My  love  is  humble  but  not  grovelling, 
mother. 

\_Exennt  Mrs.  Chatterton,  Mary,   and  Phillips  as 
Bertha  comes  slowly  down  the  steps. 

Bertha.  Why,  Mr.  Chatterton  ! 

Chatterton.  Are  you  surprised  ? 

Bertha.  I  have  not  seen  you  since  the  day — the  day — 

Chatterton.  You  were  so  eloquent  in  my  defence. 

Bertha.   You  were  eavesdropping,  then. 

Chatterto7i.  Call  it  not  that. 

Some  words,  the  Cabala  says,  have  power  occult 
No  spirit  can  resist ;   'twas  so  with  me. 
Their  curses  seemed  like  bats  upon  the  wing; 
Your  accents  like  the  flight  of  finches,  lady, 
Followed  by  Fancy,  with  her  mistless  eyes, 
Beyond  the  range  of  sight,  and  memoried  then 
For  future  dreams. 

Bertha.  What  have  you  done  these  days 

Since  you  left  Lambert's  house? 

95 


act  hi.]  xrbe  3Baro  of 


Chatterton.  Not  overmuch : 

Re-read  Agrippa,  part  of  Paracelsus, 
And  '  The  Economy  of  Human  Life ' 
Translated  from  a  Bramin's  Indian  tongue ; 
Designed  the  costumes  for  this  mummers'  march ; 
Sketched  a  few  castles  and  some  Roman  camps ; 
Wandered  at  times  o'er  the  surrounding  hills — 
There  are  expansive  views  from  Drundry  Tower 
O'er  seven  counties  of  this  peerless  Isle  ; 
One  over  Clifton  and  the  Severn's  tide 
To  the  Wyndcliff  rising  from  the  tortuous  Wye 
Near  Tintern  Abbey. 

Bertha.  Have  you  written  nothing  ? 

Chatterton.   A  few  poor  songs  :  I  wrote  an  elegy 
At  Stanton-Drew — a  joyless  lover's  wail, 
Amid  the  altars  of  enduring  stone, 
Where  Druid-priest  once  drove  his  golden  knife 
Into  the  victim's  heart. 

Bertha.  What  have  you  found  ? 

Chatterton.  An  ancient  song  near  Norton-Malreward, 
The  place  of  Rowley's  birth. 

Bertha.  A  name  prophetic. 

Oh,  let  me  see  the  song  ! 

Chatterton.  It  is  not  here. 

Bertha.  What  is  the  title  ? — tell  me  of  it,  please. 
96 


/IDars  IRefcclfffe.  [act  hi. 

Chatterton.  A  name  prophetic,  too — '  The  Unknown 
Knight.' 

Bertha.  May  I  not  read  it  soon  ? 

Chatterton.  To-morrow  evening 

I  shall  be  passing  through  Threadneedle  Street 
To  Shoreditch,  London. 

Bertha.  When  do  you  return  ? 

Chatterton.   When  Rowley's  famous  and  myself  am 
known — 
When  I  stir  London  with  real  flesh  and  blood, 
As  I  shall  Bristol  with  this  puppet-show  : 
To-day's  my  climax  here. 

Bertha.  That  may  take  years. 

Chatterton.   Time  minces  through  the  wonderland  of 
youth : 
My  months  are  years. 

Bertha.  My  prayers  accompany  you. 

Chatterton.  Then  I  shall  win  :  I  lift  the  glove  of  Fate  ! 

Bertha.  You  must  not  be  so  wild. 

Chatterton.    \Taking  a  bracelet  front  his  pocket. ~\ 

This  bangle,  lady, 
Has  pendants  formed  from  early  coins  upturned 
By  my  dear  father  in  his  tragic  search 
For  what  his  present  lacked  ;  for  then  as  now, 
The  city  walls,  the  Roman  camps,  the  hills, 
7  97 


act  hi.]  Ube  JBaro  of 


And  the  outlying  castles  were  too  weak 

To  check  the  Roundhead,  Commerce. — Here  we  see 

The  sitting  figure  of  a  Latin  dame 

Holding  a  goblet  to  uncoiling  serpent 

Ascending  from  an  altar ;   on  this  medal, 

Constantinus  riding  in  a  chariot  drawn 

By  four  wild  steeds,  '  Soli  invicto  Comiti .  ' 

Here  is  another  maid,  in  her  left  hand 

The  horn  of  plenty,  and  within  her  right 

The  rudder  of  a  ship. — The  symbol's  clear. — 

A  man  transfixing  suppliant  with  a  dart ; 

The  drawing  of  a  captive  from  a  den  ; 

Two  hands  clasped  tightly  in  mild  Nerva's  reign ; 

And  on  this  coin  of  silver  is  inscribed 

The  potent  word,  '  Invictus  !  ' — Take  it,  lady. 

Bertha.  A  maiden,  sir,  can  not  accept — 

Chatterton.  You  must, 

Or  I  will  hurl  the  trinket  to  the  street. 
A  gift  refused  revives  the  bitter  slight 
Whenever  it  is  scanned. 

Bertha.    \Taking  it.~\  Then  give  it  me. — 

I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,  sir. 

Chatterton.   Such  sorrow  is  my  joy  ! 

Bertha.  You  must  be  calm, 

Or  prudence  will  forbid  me  to  remain. 

98 


/iDarE  iRefcclifte.  [act  hi. 

Chatterton.  Fools  are  uplifted  by  the  wings  of  Love. 
You  do  not  know  how  calm  I  meant  to  be  ; 
How  oft  I  have  rehearsed  this  parting  scene 
With  every  tranquil  word  I  was  to  speak, 
And  not  a  syllable  is  apt — not  one. 
I  love  you — that  is  all. 

Bertha.  You  are  a  boy, 

And  youth  is  changeful  as  an  April  sky. 

Chatterton.  You  call  me  boy ;  I  have  an  only  son 
Three  centuries  old — his  name  is  Thomas  Rowley. 

Bertha.   You  must  forget  this  fondness  in  your  work. 

Chatterton.    I've  tried  to  weary  love  with  ceaseless 
toil: 
Why,  I  have  scarcely  slept  since  last  we  met ; 
No  hour  too  late,  and  not  a  moment  lost. 
Nor  could  I  drown  my  love  in  beauty,  lady  : 
Each  blackbird  sang  of  wooing  to  its  mate, 
Each  primrose  whispered  of  a  bridal  wreath, 
Each  landscape  spake  of  wedded  years  ahead. — 
Look  on  the  carving  of  that  purfled  porch, 
And  see  a  genius  tangled  in  design  : 
Love  is  the  rock,  the  rest  is  filigree  ! 

Bertha.  You  promised  to  be  commonplace  in  day- 
light. 

Chatterton.   O,  gentle  lady,  give  me  some  response — 
99 


act  in.]  Zbe  Bart)  ot 


A  word  on  whose  foundation  I  can  build. 
Think  what  it  is  to  be  alone  in  London  : 
A  million  people  and  not  one  a  friend ; 
A  maze  of  narrow  streets  with  smoking  lamps ; 
Steep,  creaking  stairs,  a  garret,  and  a  candle 
That  weeps  and  struggles  feebly  with  the  dark. 
But  to  a  lover  loved,  all  this  is  changed  : 
A  million  fancies  come  as  welcome  friends, 
The  streets  are  highways  leading  on  to  fame, 
The  lamps  are  stars,  the  garret  is  a  palace, 
The  tallow  dip  is  Freedom's  naming  torch, 
And  the  swift  river  is  the  flux  of  power 
Seeking  communion  with  the  mighty  streams 
That  pour  into  the  ocean. — Bertha,  dear, 
Let  Love  accompany  me. 

Bertha.  This  is  true  love, 

If  it  prove  lasting. 

Chatterton.  Put  me  to  the  proof. 

Bertha.  You  must  not  deem  me  cold  and  heartless,  sir ; 
But  were  I  yours,  and  were  your  love  to  wane, 
My  life  would  be  undone. 

Chatterton.  A  test  !  a  test  ! 

Bertha.  Time  is  the  only  test,  and  we  must  wait ; 
I,  too,  am  young  and  vaguely  know  my  heart ; 
Though  this  your  frankness  forces  me  to  own  : 

ioo 


flDarg  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

I  love  to  hear  your  voice,  and  when  you  leave 
I  feel  I  shall  be  lonely. 

Chatterton.  Those  few  words 

Will  fill  all  London  with  the  scent  of  roses 
And  flood  the  alleys  with  a  gilding  light ! 
In  knightly  spirit,  lady,  I  accept 
The  trying  test  of  time  and  seal  the  bond. 

[Sinks  upon  one  knee  and  kisses  her  hand. 

Bertha.   My  father  comes  !  \_Chatterton  rises. 

Enter  Burgum,  Alexander  Catcott,  and  Barrett. 

Chatterton.  I  thank  thee,  Mary  Redcliffe. 

Burgum.   Yes,  here  they  are  ! 

Barrett.  I  told  you  it  was  true. 

Burgum.   How  dare  you  meet  my  daughter? 

Alexander  Catcott.  Silly  question  : 

Wren  flies  to  wren,  and  why  not  youth  to  maiden  ? 

Burgum.     Thistlethwaite   said    that   you   were   here 
together. 

Chatterton.   A  truth  with  evil  purpose  is  a  lie. 

Burgum.   Are  you  not  here  ? 

Chatterton.  I  am  not  quite  awake. 

Burgum.   No  insolence,  or  you  shall  feel  this  stick. 

Chatterton.   I  think  that  I  should  welcome  the  first 
blow 
To  show  I  am  not  dreaming. 

IOI 


act  hi.]  Ube  Baro  of 


Alexander  Catcott.  Gently,  Burgum  : 

If  you  would  have  the  maiden  love  the  youth, 
Abuse  him  and  she  will. 

Burgum.  She  love  that  scrub  ? 

And  it  is  odds  I  would  bestow  her  hand 
On  a  pauper's  brat  scarce  past  his  teething  teens, 
And  foul  my  lineage  with  the  vassal  blood 
That  comes  from  sires  like  his  !  \Laughs  scornfully. 

Barrett.  Be  not  so  loud. 

Chatterton.   Saint  Mary,  lend  me  patience  ! 

Bertha.  Father,  cease. 

Burgum.  By  John  de  Bergham's  shade,  it  is  too  good 
For  anything  but  laughter  ! — Tell  them,  Bertha, 
As  you  confessed  to  me  some  time  ago, 
That  you  love  Rowley  and  not  Chatterton. 

Bertha.  Confessions,  father,  are  best  made  at  home. 

Burgum.   Confessions — 'slife  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  The  lady's  in  the  right : 

Confessions  to  the  public  tang  of  pride. 

Burgum.  Oh,  damn  the  public  ;  I  will  have  the  truth  ; 
Girl,  answer  me — you  love  or  love  him  not. 

Bertha.   Dear  father,  I  do  not  deny  your  claim 
To  learn  the  inmost  secrets  of  my  heart 
For  my  own  welfare  and  your  peace  of  mind  ; 
But,  sir,  not  here — I'll  answer  you  to-night. 

102 


/iDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

Burgum.   Defied  by  my  own  child  ! 

Chatterton.  Sir,  I  will  ease — 

Burgum.  You  said  the  first  blow  would  be  welcome, 
boy; 
Well,  there  it  is  !  [Strikes  Chatterton  with  his  cane. 

Bertha.  O  father — Chatterton  ! 

Chatterton.   [Restraining  himself  with  a  strong  effort. ~\ 
Saint  Mary,  Mary,  Mary  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  [To  Burgum. ]    You  are  a  brute  ! 

Chatterton.   It  is  a  fitting  prologue  for  the  test : 
I  did  not  dream  that  I  could  bear  a  blow — 
God  help  the  next  that  strikes  me  ! 

Alexaudcr  Catcott.  Strike  him  again, 

And  my  stick  will  play  about  your  Midas  ears  ! 

Burgum.   I've  humbled  him  before  her. 

Bertha.  Raised  him,  sir ; 

For  well  I  know  that  no  man  but  my  father 
Would  live  to  say  '  I  struck  him. ' 

Chatterton.  I  wish  the  blow 

Had  been  much  harder — it  will  leave  no  scar. 

Alexander  Catcott.    [To  Burgum. ] 
I  warned  you  :  she  will  love  him  now  ere  night, 
Were  she  a  maid  of  marble  in  the  snow. 
I  love  him  better,  and  I've  loved  him  long. 

Chatterton.  O  Mr.  Catcott,  I  have  done  you  wrong — 
103 


act  in.]  TIbe  Baro  of 


The  bitterest  wrong  because  it  was  sincere. 

Were  you  a  priest,  yourself  should  set  the  penance  : 

I'd  rather  murder  than  disprize  a  friend. 

Alexander  Catcott.    Merciless  vicars  are  the  devil's 
spies  : 
My  province  is  to  save  and  not  to  judge. 
Your  faults  are  many  ;  but  your  frozen  pride 
In  kindness  melts  like  icicles  in  the  sun. — 
Call  on  me  at  the  vicarage  to-night. 

Chatterton.   I  go  to  London,  sir. 

Burgum.  Had  I  known  that, 

I  would  not  have  chastised  you. 

Chatterton.  Let  that  pass  ; 

I  am  on  trial,  and  the  worst  is  o'er  : 
You  turned  the  thumbkin,  and  I  did  not  flinch. 

Barrett.  You  shall  not  go  to  London  till  I  have 
The  parchments  that  will  verify  my  book. 

Chatterton.   You're  younger  and  more  muscular  than 
Burgum  : 
I'll  give  them  all  to  you  with  Rowley's  works, 
If  you  touch  me  with  a  finger  of  restraint, 
Or  say  again  '  you  shall !  ' 

Bertha.  Be  not  so  brash  ! 

I  know  your  courage  would  not  blanch  at  Death. 

Chatterton.  Here's  Horace  Walpole  with  the  barnacle 
104 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

That  fastens  to  each  onward-ploughing  keel, 
And  moves  as  swiftly  as  the  loftiest  ship 
To  unvexed  anchorage  in  the  silken  East. — 
Pray  God,  he  may  insult  me  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  Thomas,  lad, 

A  quarrel  now  would  rob  you  of  your  crown. 

Chatterton.   I  will  not  quarrel,  then — God  bless  you, 
sir. 

Enter  Walpole  and  Thistlethwaite. 
Burgum.    \_Going  to  Walpole, .] 
Welcome  ! — I  stopped  for  you  at  the  White  Lion. 

Walpole.    I  went  up    to    the    Lamb    to   lodge  with 

ghosts. 
Bertha     \_To   Chatterton.^      My  admiration  is  more 
wholly  yours 
Than  when  you  stood  and  faced  them  with  the  law. 
Chatterton.   I  am  a  feather  from  the  wing  of  Fortune. 
Walpole.    Miss  Burgum,   I    have  sought  you   every- 
where ; 
And,  but  for  him,  I  should  be  searching  still. 

Bertha.   A  Bristol  stone  is  barely  worth  the  search. 
Walpole.   A  lapidary  can  detect  a  jewel 
Though  in  a  bezel  with  delusive  foil. — 
I  have  received  from  London  by  the  post 
My  'Castle  of  Otranto.'     Here  it  is. 
io5 


act  hi.]  Ube  Baro  of 


Chatterton.  Walpole  and  Rowley  entered  in  the  lists. 

Walpole.   I  will  not  break  a  lance  with  any  knight : 
Rowley  is  Rowley,  and  myself  am  self. 

Burgum.   It  is  a  masterpiece  of  noble  wit ; 
Second  to  none  since  John  de  Bergham  wrote. 

Bertha.  You  have  not  read  it. 

Burgum.  But  I've  read  its  author. 

Chatterton.  Were  your  words  conscious,  they  would 
be  superne. 

Walpole.  What  is  that  coming  here  in  garb  grotesque 
Bearing  a  rod  of  gold  ? 

Chatterton.  The  Mayor  of  Bristol ! 

Walpole.  He  looks  more  like  a  monkey  than  a  mayor. 

Chatterton.   You  have  the  prejudice  but  not  the  pride 
Upholden  by  the  conquest  of  the  past. 
Enter  the  Mayor. 

Mayor.   Greeting,  Bristolians — greeting  to  you  all  ! 

Walpole.  Lord  love  us,  he  will  make  a  speech. 

Mayor.  A  speech  ! 

You  call  upon  the  Mayor  to  make  a  speech  ? 
To-day  we  emulate  our  ancient  sires, 
And  open  our  new  bridge  as  they  did  theirs. 
This  is  the  day  of  days,  the  hour  of  hours — 
Time's  apex  from  which  every  thing  descends. 

Walpole.  Let  me  crawl  out  from  under  ere  you  fall. 
106 


flDarp  IRefcclfffe.  [act  hi. 

Chatterton.  Your  gorgeous  robes  of  state  are  all  awry. 
[Arranges  the  robes  on  the  Mayor. ] 
That  gilded  rod  is  not  a  walking-stick ; 
But  an  awful  symbol  of  barbaric  sway, 
And  must  be  borne  like  sceptre  in  the  hand. — 
By  those  two  Britons,  Brennus  and  Bellinus, 
You  wear  your  helmet  with  the  visor  back, 
As  if  your  enemies  were  in  the  rear  ! 
Turn  it  about. — There,  that  is  better,  sir. 
Draw  round  that  girdle  ;  ornament  your  front, 
Or  you  will  look,  sir,  like  a  Chinese  junk  : 
Most  lofty  in  the  poop.  —  'Odspins-and-needles  ! 
I  must  o'ersee  the  placing  of  each  gaud, 
Or,  in  your  ignorance  of  knightly  forms, 
You'll  have  your  horse's  frontlet  on  his  rump. 

Mayor.    I   left  George   Catcott  struggling  with    his 
clothes. 

Chatterton.   I  must  array  him,  too  ;  or  he  will  stalk, 
Like  wild  Caradoc  in  the  streets  of  Rome  : 
With  goatskin  hose  for  muffettees  on  his  arms, 
His  short,  white  alba  tied  about  his  loins, 
And  naked  else. 

Mayor.  What  was  the  Saxons'  food  ? 

Chatterton.   Turtles  and  nappy  ale. 

Mayor.  Hail  to  their  taste  ! 

107 


act  hi.]  ut>e  Baro  of 


Each  drop  of  Saxon  blood  within  my  veins 
Cries  '  turtle  !  '  to  my  stomach. 

Chatterton.  'Tis  but  wind. 

TJiistlethwaite.   The  Old  Fox  here  serves  turtles,   I 

believe. 
Mayor.  Bid  them  prepare  one  ;  I  am  nearly  famished. 
Chatterton.  Stop  ! — not  a  mouthful  shall  his  Mayor- 
ship have, 
Or  this  procession  moves  without  my  aid. 
Mayor.  Let  me  have  one  wee  turtle. 
Chatterton.  Not  a  fin. 

Mayor.    'Tis  heartless,  boy,  to  make  me  fast  three 

hours. 
TJiistlethwaite.  You  have  my  deepest  sympathy,  dear 
sir; 
For  at  the  school  we  know  what  hunger  is. 
I  care  not  for  myself,  but  for  the  lads 
Whose  growing  bodies  proper  nurture  need. 

Mayor.   Saint  Julian  !  Latin  is  less  use  than  food. 
ThistletJiwaite.  The  ham  is  sliced  so  thin  that  one 
pig's  thigh 
Would  carpet  Brandon  Hill  in  red  and  white  ; 
And  then  there  is  no  butter  on  the  bread. 

Mayor.  Sandwiches  and  no  butter — monstrous  fraud  ! 
What  will  the  next  race  be  ? — How  comes  this  thus  ? 

108 


flfcars  IRefcclffte.  [act  hi. 

Thistlethwaite.   The  master  is  a  very  worthy  man, 
But  oft  too  heedless. 

Chatterto?i.  You  back-biting  flea  ! 

You  seek  the  master's  place. — Another  word, 
And  I  will  spank  you  in  the  public  street 
Until  your  bed  will  need  no  warming-pan  ! 

Bertha.   O  Mr.  Chatterton  ! 

Alexander  Catcott.  Forbear,  my  boy. 

Burgum.  He  is  but  jealous  of  the  young  man's  parts. 

Chatterton.   Nay,  jealous  that  a  mongrel  cur  can  thrive 
By  licking  feet  that  ought  to  spurn  him,  sir. 
What  has  he  done — what  will  he  ever  do 
That  ranks  with  my  least  line  ? 

Alexander  Catcott.  The  lad  is  just : 

Since  that  Pride's  Purge  in  lawyer  Lambert's  house, 
I've  studied  Thistlethwaite  with  kindly  eyes, 
And  found  a  mountebank. 

Mayor.  Cease  this  debate  ! 

I  would  not  wait  my  dinner  for  a  cock-fight ; 
Much  less  for  this. 

Chatterton.  A  fight  is  in  me  still. 

\_A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  inn  is  heard. 

Mayor.   Those  hungry  sots  will  leave  the  larder  bare. 
\Then  to  Thistlethwaite .~\ 
Go  bid  the  landlord  have  prepared  for  me, 

109 


act  hi.]  Ube  Barfc  ot 


As  soon  as  this  sublime  parade  is  o'er, 

A  knuckle  of  veal,  and  see  the  bone  is  blue 

To  prove  the  meat  is  young ;  a  Southdown  leg 

With  fat  as  white  as  is  the  mountain  snow ; 

Some  sweetbreads  garnished  with  mushrooms  and  eggs  ; 

A  chicken  minced  and  stewed  with  pats  of  butter ; 

A  hamper  full  of  strawberries  red-ripe  ; 

Cucumbers,  cabbages,  and  apple  pie  ; 

A  pregnant  pudding  in  a  brandy  sea  ; 

And  one  large  turtle  turned  to  Saxon  soup, 

Flavoured  with  onion,  marjoram,  and  ham, 

And  riched  with  lights  and  liver. — But  beware, 

Lest  he  should  burst  the  bladder  of  the  beast, 

And  drench  my  dainty  appetite  with  gall. 

Chatterton.  Why  not  a  calf's  brain,  too? 

Mayor.  Yes,  order  that. 

Thistlethwaite.    It  shall  be  done  at  once. 

\_Exit  into  inn. 

Mayor.    \To  Chatterton.~\  Come  now  with  me  : 

If  I  must  fast,  the  shorter  time  the  better. 

Walpole.   Go  all  of  you  with  him  ;  for  I  confess 
A  Joseph's  ardour  to  interpret  dreams 
To  Potipherah's  daughter. 

Burgum.  Royal  dreams  ! 

Come,  Barrett,  Vicar — you  may  be  of  aid. 

no 


/iDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

Alexander  Catcott.   Were  this  a  Grecian  festival,   I 
might. 

[Exeunt  all  except  Walpole  and  Bertha. 

Walpole.    [Sitting  down  upon  the  steps  of  the  church. "\ 
Let  us  dispense  with  etiquette,  my  dear, 
And  be  ourselves. 

Bertha.  Form  oft  is  part  of  self. 

Walpole.  Nay,  form  is  for  those  butterflies  with  brains 
Much  lower  than  their  rank  ;  I  need  it  not. 
Sit  here  beside  me  and  appraise  this  book. 
[Then  after  Bertha  is  seated.~\ 
'  The  Castle  of  Otranto  '  was  a  fling 
Against  the  modern  critics,  who  must  blow 
The  dust  of  ages  from  each  work  of  art, 
Or  blast  it  with  their  breath. — I  published  it 
As  a  translation  of  a  tale  antique 
Writ  by  an  artful  priest  in  the  Crusades. 

Bertha.  Why,  Rowley  was  a  priest ! 

Walpole.  A  mere  coincidence. 

Then  when  the  Gothic  story  was  in  vogue 
And  men  of  nicest  censure  praised  it  high, 
I  quick  unfrocked,  and  owned  that  it  was  mine. 

[Laughs. 

Bertha.  You  wanted  courage. 

Walpole.  It  was  boldly  wise 

in 


act  hi.]  xrbe  Baro  of 


To  grant  the  world  a  treasure,  and  by  a  ruse 
To  hasten  the  enjoyment  of  the  boon. 

Bertha.  With  power  of  wealth  and  preference  of  birth, 
You  were  afraid  to  father  your  own  child 
Till  it  had  fathered  you.     For  one  obscure, 
There  would  be  more  excuse. 

Walpole.  You  are  too  harsh  : 

It  is  the  music  not  the  parent  muse — 
The  cord  is  severed  when  the  song  is  born. 
What  matter  whether  Ossian  or  Macpherson 
Wrote  those  Erse  poems  flashing  like  old  Pindar's? 
Let  the  translator  own  the  forgery, 
And  Gray  is  ready  to  pack  up  his  lyre, 
Saddle  wild  Pegasus,  and  set  out  at  once 
To  greet  the  minstrel  in  his  Highland  home ; 
And  I  will  ride,  if  needful,  on  the  crupper. — 
But  this  is  from  the  point ;  here  is  the  book. 

Bertha.    [After  turning  over  the  pages. ,] 
'Tis  writ  in  prose  ! 

Walpole.  Prose  is  a  merchantman, 

And  Poetry  a  rakish  pirate  craft 
With  greater  spread  of  sail.     But  I've  a  play 
Called  'The  Mysterious  Mother,'  writ  in  verse  ; 
And  you  shall  read  it  when  you  come  to  London 
As  my  most  honoured  guest. 


ZlDars  IRefccltffe.  [act  hi. 

Bertha.  You  have  a  press  : 

Why  not  print  Rowley's  poems,  and  exalt 
A  youth  that  has  rare  genius  of  his  own  ? 

Walpole.   What  you  command  I'll  do,  but  nothing 
more. 
Artists  have  pencils,  authors  have  their  pens  ; 
And  the  public  must  reward  them  at  its  will. 

Bertha.   It  is  unfair  to  make  me  give  command, 
When  your  ripe  judgment  should  enforce  the  act. 
A  gift  to  Genius  is  a  gift  to  Time, 
And  outranks  Genius  in  its  melting  power — 
'Tis  a  payment  by  the  Present  to  the  Future 
Of  what  the  Present  owes  the  parent  Past. 
Think  not  to  buy  a  quittance  of  this  claim 
With  cunning  words  that  counterfeit  the  truth  : 
Posterity  is  merciless  but  just. — 
Now  tell  me  of  Otranto. 

Walpole.  'Tis  an  attempt 

To  wed  young  Nature  to  mature  Romance ; 
And  as  the  public  have  applauded  me, 
I  must  not  say  that  I  have  wholly  failed. 
I've  followed  Shakespeare,  not  Corneille,  dear, 
In  placing  naivete  near  the  august. — 
My  servants  speak  as  servants,  not  as  counts. 

Bertha.  Therein  you  followed  life. 
8  113 


act  in.]  xrbe  JSarO  ot 


Walpole.  A  keen  remark ; 

Though  great  Voltaire  would  censure  me  most  sore 
For  setting  a  buffoon  beside  a  seer. 
But  I  appeal  from  Voltaire  to  himself: 
Within  the  preface  to  his  '  Enfant  Prodigue,' 
Marked  by  his  style  and  ease  of  argument, 
These  words  appear,  '  On  y  voit  un  melange — ' 
Do  you  speak  French  ? 

Bertha.  A  simple  phrase  or  two. 

Walpole.   It  is  a  pity  :   I  will  teach  you  French 
And  somewhat  of  Italian  ;  though  I  hate 
The  blending  of  the  tiger  and  the  monkey, 
With  more  of  monkey  than  of  tiger,  dear, 
In  every  male  in  France. 
Thistlethwaite  enters  from  the  inn  and  then  departs. 

Bertha.  There's  Thistlethwaite. 

Walpole.   A  very  modest  youth. 

Bertha.  An  arrant  sneak  ! 

Walpole.    That    damns   him   in   my  eyes ;    and  let 
him  go. — 
Read  o'er  this  tale  and  tell  me  of  its  faults  ; 
For  I  have  found  each  word  of  yours  acute 
And  vital  to  the  issue.     'Tis  a  shame — 
But  with  your  father  I  will  have  a  talk 
And  seek  a  way  to  mend  it. 

114 


ffbnvs  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

Bertha.  To  mend  what  ? 

Walpole.  To  mend  the  blind  decrees  of  eyeless  Chance. 
Bertha.   That  is  the  errand  of  a  man  of  wealth. 

\The  bells  of  Mary  Redcliffe  begin  to  chime. 
Walpole.   What  means  this  chime  of  bells  ? 
Bertha.  I  fancy,  sir, 

A  messenger  has  entered  the  south  porch, 
With  news  that  the  procession  is  begun. 
Enter  the  People. 
Walpole.   You  are  a  sibyl,  for  the  people  come. 
Gingerbread  Man.     Hot  spice    gingerbread  !      Hot 

spice  gingerbread  ! 
Walpole.   How  harmless  they  appear  in  gay  attire  ! 
But  when  at  table,  brandishing  their  knives 
In  act  to  carve  a  mountain  of  roast  beef, 
They  mind  me  of  the  cannibals,  my  dear. 
Enter  Chatterton,  Mrs.  Chatterton,  Mary,  and 
Phillips. 
Chatterton.   We'll  take  our  stand  here,  mother,   on 
the  steps  : 
There  could  not  be  a  better  point  of  view  ; 
For  they  will  mass  in  numbers  by  this  porch. 
[  Then  to  Bertha.  ] 

I  left  the  burghers  ready  in  the  meadows  ; 
The  chiming  of  the  bells  will  bring  them  down. 

"5 


act  hi.]  zrbe  Barb  of 


Enter  Alice,  Betty,  Dorothy,  and  Agnes. 

Agnes.  There  is  the  bard  ! 

Chatterton.  The  Bard  of  Mary  Redcliffe  ! 

Come  here,  my  dears;  there's  room  enough  for  all. 

Alice.  We  saw  them  in  the  meadows. 

Dorothy.  They  look  odd. 

Betty.   Six  of  them  put  the  Mayor  upon  his  horse. 

Gingerbread  Man.     Hot   spice  gingerbread  !       Hot 
spice  gingerbread  ! 

Chatterton.     Sir   Gingerbread,    come  over    to  these 
ladies, 
And  prove  a  baker's  right  to  golden  spurs  ; 
For  knighthood's  won  in  tournaments  of  trade. 
God  save  King  George  and  bless  his  glorious  reign  ! 
\Then  after  the  man  is  come  to  the  steps. ] 
Here,  mother,  is  a  smoking  piece  for  you. — 
Miss  Burgum,  Mary,  Alice — all  must  partake  : 
The  Saxons  fed  on  this  and  turtle  soup  ; 
But  save  the  crumbs,  for  waste  betokens  want.  — 
Will  you  not  try  it,  sir? 

Walpole.  No,  none  for  me. 

Chatterton.   I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  for  I  forgot 
Your  Gothic  castle  is  of  gingerbread. 

Walpole.  This  is  pure  impudence  ! 

Bertha.  Excitement,  sir. 

116 


ZlDars  IReteliffe.  [act  hi. 

Chatterton.    'Tis  madness  to  speak  truth. 

[A  song  celebrating  the  joys  of  the  Pine  Apple  Inn 
is  heard  from  the  Old  Fox  across  the  street. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.  Your  father's  song  ! 

Chatterton.    That's   Thistlethwaite's    contrivance    to 
bedim 
The  perfect  lustre  of  this  flawless  hour : 
He  went  into  the  inn. — Wait  till  he  comes  ! 

Mrs.  Chatterton.  You  must  do  nothing,  Thomas  ! 
Chatterton.  Nothing,  mother: 

I  am  merciful  as  Mercy  when  I  rule. 

Enter  Burgum,  Vicar  Catcott,  Barrett,  and 
Thistlethwaite. 
Burgum.   There's  Mr.  Walpole  ;  we  will  join  him. 
Mrs.  Chatterton.   Now,  Tom,  be  civil  to  them. 
Chatterton.  I  will,  mother. 

Enter  Flower  Girl. 
Flower  Girl.    [Singing."] 

My  basket  daily  I  supply  ; 

Come  buy  my  nosegays,  buy  who'll  buy. 

Sweet  violets  !     Sweet  violets  ! 

Chatterton.  The  souls  of  hapless  lovers  are  in  flowers  ; 
And  in  the  violet  modest  la  dwells, 
Still  hiding  from  Apollo. — Here,  my  dear  ! 

117 


act  in.]  Zbc  JBaro  of 


I  will  buy  every  blossom,  lest  I  miss 
A  fragrant  whisper  in  its  haunted  leaves. 
[Some  of  the  people  Iaugh.~\ 
Laugh  on  !     My  life's  salvation  lies  in  mirth  : 
Flowers  must  drink  sunlight  to  preserve  their  bloom, 
But  they  grow  faster  in  a  day  of  gloom. — 
That  rime  is  saucy,  for  it  came  unsought. 
Enter  Lambert  and  his  Mother  from  the  street  and 
Broughton  from  the  porch . 

Mrs.  Chatterton.   You  must  be  prudent,  Thomas  ;  for 
you  have — 

Chatterton.    [  Thrusting  his  hand  into  his  pocket.  ] 
Five  pounds,  three  shillings,  and  one  penny,  mother  : 
The  number  of  the  whirling  spheres  of  song. 
I  can  count  all  by  feeling  in  my  pocket ; 
\Then  glancing  significantly  at  Walpole.~\ 
But  gingerbread  takes  second  place  to-day. 

Flower  Girl.  How  many  nosegays,  sir. 

Chatterton.  All  you  have  gathered. 

Flower  Girl.  Two  shillings  for  the  lot. 

Chatterton.  You  shall  have  three. 

[  Then  as  he  throws  the  violets  to  those  on  the  steps. ~\ 
Catch  them,  fair  ladies,  catch  them  as  they  fly  ! 
They  will  perfume  the  air,  and  in  return 
The  air  will  cleanse  them  of  my  pitchy  touch. 

118 


/Bars  IRebcUffe*  [Act  hi. 

Flower  Girl.   I  shall  have  more  of  them  to-morrow, 

sir. 
Minstrels.   [Singing  in  the  distance.] 

When  King  Kinghill  in  his  hand 
Held  the  sceptre  of  this  land, 
Sheening  star  of  Christian  light 
The  merkie  mists  of  pagan  night 

Gan  to  scatter  far  and  wide  : 
Then  Saint  Werburgh  he  arose, 
Doffed  his  honours  and  fine  clothes  ; 
Preaching  in  his  Master's  name, 
To  the  land  of  West  Sexx  came, 

Where  blaeke  Severn  rolls  his  tide. 

Chatterton.    [Rushing  up  the  steps  at  the  first  sound.  ~\ 
There' re  coming,  mother;  listen  to  the  strains  ! 
Bertha.    [In  alarm.]      His  eyes  are  all  aflame  ! 
Mrs.  Chatterton.  Be  calm,  my  son. 

Chatterton.   'Tis  worth  a  life  to  live  a  single  hour : 
Would  one  exultant  moment  were  eterne  ! 

[The  sounds  grazu  louder  and  louder,  and  the  people 

shout. 
Then  enter  two  Beadles  strewing  fresh  straw. 
Chatterton.  The  Beadles  ! — The  procession  is  begun  ! 
Enter  George  Catcott  dressed  in  hose  and  doublet 
of  goat-skin,  over  which  is  a  large  white  robe, 
119 


act  hi.]  Ube  3Bar&  of 


without  sleeves,  reaching  to  his  loins.  On  his  left 
shoulder  is  a  girdle  of  azure  reaching  also  to  his 
loins  on  the  right,  doubled  back  to  the  left,  and 
fastened  with  a  golden  buckle  dangled  to  his  knee. 
In  his  hand  is  a  shield  representing  Saint  Wer- 
burgh  crossing  the  ford. 
Phillips.  George  Catcott  sure  ! 
Chatterton.  King  Harold  was  a  fool ! 

Catcott  will  be  the  first  to  cross  the  bridge. 

\_Enter  a  Man  in  complete  armour  bearing  an  ancient 

,  sword  of  Bristol,  followed  by  a  band  of  Saxon 

Spearmen  with  triangular  shields,  short  hauberks, 

and  rude  helmets  defending  the  head  and  neck."] 

Hold    up    your    heads,    you    stooping,    knock-kneed 

knaves ! 
And  march  as  JEWa.  marched  when  forced  to  leave 
His  Bertha's  arms  to  battle  with  the  Danes. 

\Enter  six  Clarions  and  six  Minstrels. 
Minstrels.    [Singing.'] 

Then  the  folk  a  bridge  did  make 
Over  the  stream  unto  the  hecke 
All  of  wood  eke  long  and  wide, 
Pride  and  glory  of  the  tide ; 

Which  in  time  did  fall  away. 
Then  Earl  Leof  he  bespedde 
1 20 


ZlDars  IRefccIfffe*  [act  hi. 

This  great  river  from  his  bed, 
Round  his  castle  for  to  run  ; 
'Twas  in  troth  an  ancient  one, 

But  war  and  time  will  all  decay. 

Chatterton.  You  Danish  ravens,  give  a  louder  croak  ! 
[Enter  a  Man  bearing  a  banner  with  a  boar's  head 
on  it. 
The  Saxon  symbol ! — see  the  boar's  head,  mother  ! 
It  makes  a  fitting  banner  for  our  Mayor. 

[Enter   the  Priests  and  the  Friars,  some  singing 
Saint  WerburgK 's  song  and  others  sounding  cla- 
rions thereto. 
Louder  you  shavelings  ! — Rowley  was  a  monk  ; 

[Enter  the  Mayor  in  golden  robes  waving  a  rod  of 
gold,  mounted  on  a  white  horse  with  mane  and 
tail  braided  with   ribbons,    and  with    a   small 
escutcheon  of  the  ancient  arms  of  Bristol  on  its 
forehead.     Beside  the  horse  walks  a  dwarf  bear- 
ing in  his  hand  the  Mayor1  s  helmet. 
The  Mayor  !  the  Mayor  !    Look,  mother,  at  the  Mayor  ! 
[Enter  the  Aldermen  in  scarlet  copes  and  hats  with 
sable  plumes,  mounted  on  black  horses  dight  with 
white  trappings. 
The  Aldermen  ! — Oh,  I  shall  die  of  mirth  ! 

[Enter  a  crowd  of  Saxon  warriors,  extending  as 
121 


act  hi.]  Ube  IBaro  of 


far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  armed  with  axes,  bills, 
clubs,  and  short  swords. 
Now  ^Ella  bids  defiance  to  the  Danes  ! 

\_The procession  halts  before  the  church  in  a  glitter- 
ing mass,  and  the  singing  ceases. 
Mayor.   Bristolians  all,  Time  never  saw  before, 
And  ne'er  will  see  again,  a  sight  like  this. — 
Strike  up  the  music  !     Forward  to  the  bridge  ! 
Minstrels.    [Singing.  ] 

Now  again  with  bremie  force, 
Severn  in  his  ancient  course 
Rolls  his  rapid  stream  along, 
With  a  sable  swift  and  strong, 

Moving  many  an  okie  wood. 
We,  the  men  of  Bristowe  town, 
Have  upreared  this  bridge  of  stone, 
,,  Wishing  each  one  it  may  last 

Till  the  date  of  days  be  past, 

Standing  where  the  other  stood. 

[As  the  singing  is  resumed  and  the  procession  begins 
to  move,  a  horn,  the  roll  of  wheels,  and  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs  are  heard. 
The  People.  The  coach  !  the  coach  !  the  coach  ! 
Chatterton.  It  is  the  coach  ! 

The  dust  is  flying  from  those  hoofs  and  wheels  ! 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  hi. 

That  horn  blows  welcome  summons  to  the  fray. 

Fear  not,  dear  mother ;  I  am  armed  in  steel ! 

Good-bye,  Tom  Phillips  ;  I  will  write  you  oft ; 

My  loving  sister  ;  and  my  mother  last — 

The  last  and  dearest,  for  she  gave  me  life. 

Saint  Mary  Redcliffe  be  your  guardian  Saint. 

Bristol  is  mine ;  I  now  lay  siege  to  London  ! 

[  The  sounds  of  the  approaching  coach  grow  louder 
and  louder  j  the  procession  moves  on  toward  the 
bridge  ;  Mrs.  Chatterton  throws  herself  sobbing 
into  her  son's  arms  j  and  the  curtain  slowly  de- 
scends. 


123 


act  iv.]  ube  JSarfc  ot 


ACT  FOURTH. 

Scene. — Marylebone  Gardens,  London.  In  the  centre 
is  a  pavilion  with  a  curtained  stage,  on  either  side  of 
which  is  an  orange  tree  with  a  small  lamp  in  each 
orange.  At  the  front  left  are  a  rustic  table  and 
seats ;  and  at  the  right  is  a  statue  of  Milton  seated 
as  if  listening  to  music.  The  trees  and  the  pavilion, 
decorated  with  festoons  of  flowers  and  brilliantly 
lighted  with  lamps  of  various  colours,  give  to  the 
place  the  appearance  of  a  gala  night.  On  the  rise 
of  the  curtain,  ladies  and  gentlemen  are  strolling 
through  the  grounds,  and  two  macaronis  with  two 
girls  are  seated  at  the  table  drinking  wine.  The 
men  bray  like  asses  and  the  girls  crow  like  cocks. 
Then  braying  and  crowing  are  heard  from  different 
parts  of  the  gardens,  and  are  followed  by  laughter. 

First    Gentleman.    Hens  never   crow    till  cocks   are 

turned  to  asses. 
First  Girl.   Eve  must  have  crowed. 
Second  Girl.  Ay,  men  have  brayed  since  Adam. 

Second  Gentleman.   A  thrust  between  the  ribs  ! 
124 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

First  Gentleman.  A  fitting  thrust 

For  one  of  Eve's  fair  daughters. 

Second  Gentleman.  Let  us  bray. 

[77/<?  men  bray  and  the  girls  crow  as  before. 

First  Gentleman.    \Looking  at  a  programme .~\ 
What  is  there  left  for  fodder  ? — A  Welsh  harpist 
And  a  Burletta,  '  Cupid  and  the  Titan,' 
By  Thomas  Chatterton. 

Second  Girl.  By  Chatterton  ? 

Second  Gentleman.    A  raw  recruit :    I  never   heard 
of  him. 

First  Gentleman.    The   playing   off  of   fireworks  at 
eleven. 

First  Girl.  We  must  not  stay  so  late. 

Second  Gentleman.  Another  hour 

Will  make  departure  early. 

First  Girl.  But  not  safe  : 

Highwaymen  grow  like  weeds  in  Marylebone  fields ; 
And  one  among  them,  if  report  be  true, 
Is  Satan  in  the  semblance  of  a  man. 

First  Gentleman.  You  mean  Francisco  ? 

First  Girl.  Yes,  that  is  his  name, 

Though  he  is  English  I  have  heard  it  said. 
He  rides  a  stallion  which  he  calls  Black  Death. 

Second  Girl.  He  rode  from  York  to  London  in  a  night. 

"5 


act  iv.]  Ube  3Baro  of 


Second  Gentleman.    \Laughing.~\ 
And  leaped  the  Thames  below  Westminster  Bridge  ! 
Enter  Francisco. 

First  Gentleman.    [Putting  his  hand  on  his  sword.  ] 
Let  me  meet  this  Francisco,  and  he'll  ride 
From  Earth  to  Hades  at  a  break-neck  pace. 

Francisco.  I  shall  be  present  when  you  meet  him, 
sir.  [  Turns  quickly  and  disappears. 

First  Girl.    [In  alarm.  ]      Who  is  that  man  ? 

First  Gentleman.  I  did  not  see  his  face. 

Second  Girl.   Might  he  not  be  Francisco  ? 

Second  Gentleman.  Nonsense,  dear  : 

He  would  not  thrust  his  head  into  a  noose. 

First  Girl.   We  should  have  gone  to  Vauxhall. 

Second  Gentleman.  Sadler's  Wells, 

Where  once  a  human  monster  ate  live  cocks  ; 
Or  Finche's  Grotto — 

First  Gentleman.  Ranelagh,  Jenny's  Whim, 

Or  Adam  and  Eve  Tea  Gardens  ;  for  your  charms 
Make  each  place  Paradise,  as  they  do  this. 

First  Girl.  Near  Eden's  apple  tree  a  serpent  crawled  : 
I  may  seem  timid,  but  I  dread  that  rogue. 

First  Gentleman.  A  jester  merely  who  o'erheard  my 
threat. 


126 


/iDars  IRefccliffe*  [act  iv. 

Second  Gentleman.  Departing  with  the  crowd  has  less 
of  risk 
Than  leaving  here  alone. 

First  Gentleman.  Come,  take  a  stroll ; 

For  walking,  like  the  flow  from  Pancras  Wells, 
Is  a  general  and  a  sovereign  help  to  nature  : 
Cleanses  the  body,  sweetens  bilious  blood, 
And  quells  the  rising  vapours  of  the  mind. — 
We'  11  walk  away  from  care.     But  first  a  toast. 
[They  rise  and  pick  up  their  glasses. ~\ 
My  meeting  with  Francisco — be  it  soon  ! 
First  Girl.    [Flitting  down  her  glass.  ] 
I  will  not  so  brave  Fortune. 

Second  Girl.  Nor  will  I. 

First  Gentleman.  You  cause  my  sword  to  blush  within 

its  sheath. 
Enter  Chatterton,  Monsieur  Barthelemon,  and 

Phillips. 
Second  Gentleman.   There's  Barthelemon,  the  leader 

of  the  band. 
First  Gentleman.   Salute  him  with  the  voices  of  the 

morn. 
[Then  after  braying  and crowing  they  resume  their  seats. 
Chatterton.  Walpole  is  here  to-night ;  and,  as  I  said, 
I  have  a  weighty  secret  to  unfold 
127 


act  iv.]  Ube  Baro  of 


Through  this  Burletta ;  but  at  rehearsal,  sir, 
Your  music  was  so  loud  it  drowned  my  words, 
And  they  were  foaled  for  ears. 

Barthelemon.  Ze  music  loud  ? 

Chatterton.    Questions   are  oft   as   crooked   as  their 
marks  : 
I  vow  that  in  the  hubbub  you  create 
A  thunderbolt  would  sound  like  a  skittle-ball. 

Barthelemon.    Mon  Dieu !    c'est   le    ton  qui  fait  la 
musique. 
Ze  toucher  is  so  soft  as  ze — as  ze — 
As  ze — petit  ruisseau — vat  call  you  him  ? 

Chatterton.   I  call  him  nothing,  for  I  know  him  not. 
Speak  English  or  be  dumb. 

Phillips.  Have  patience,  Tom. 

Barthelemon.   Ze  music,  too,  for  ears. 

Chatterton.  'Tis  not  alone. 

The  words  and  music  should  together  blend 
Like  two  harmonious  thoughts  ;  but  by  the  Muse  ! 
When  little  Cupid  chants  his  chiefest  lay, 
Your  fiddles  whine  like  three-mouthed  Cerberus 
Unhoused  for  the  night ;  your  shifting  trombones, 
Your  fifes  and  clarionets  and  deep  bassoon 
Rumble  like  the  windy  stomach  of  a  god, 
Making  fair  Venus  when  she  sings  appear 

128 


/iDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv 

As  if  she  chewed  in  silence  on  a  bite 

Of  tough  ambrosia  ;  and  your  French  horns 

Play  merry  hell  with  Jupiter's  last  speech. 

Barthelemon.   Ciel !  parler  comme  ca  de  l'art  divin  ! 
Ze  music  hell ! — Diable  !  vous  etes  un  enfant ! 

[  Walks  up  and  down  in  a  rage. 

Phillips.   Do  not  excite  him  further. 

Chatterton.  But  my  words — 

Barthelemon.   Ze  vords  !  ze  vords  ! — ve  buy  ze  food 
in  vords. 
Vous  avez  soif,  you  vish  a  leetle  beer, 
Some  port — eh  bien  !  vous  employez  les  mots. 
Vous  avez  faim  ;  que  voulez-vous  ?  du  jambon  ? 
Ze  tarts,  ze  cheesecakes,  ou  ze  syllabubs  ? — 
Encore  les  mots,  n'est-ce  pas?     Parbleu  !  ze  vords 
Pour  les  choses  basses — les  choses  materielles  ! 

Chatterton.  A  novel  punch — French  wine  and  English 
ale. 
Why,  you  old  fizzling  bottle  of  champagne  ! 
They  employ  far  better  melodies  than  yours 
For  hawking  crabs  and  lobsters  in  the  streets. 

Barthelemon.   Zest !  vous  etes  gourmand  ! 

Chatterton.  I  a  gourmand,  sir, 

When  both  of  your  forefeet  are  in  the  trough  ? 
Glance  o'er  this  list  and  cease  your  squealing,  sir. 
9  I29 


act  iv.]  Ube  IBaro  of 


\Takes  a  programme  from  his  pocket. .] 

A  song,  '  Swift  winged  vengeance  nerves  my  arm, ' 

By  Mr.  Thomas,  set  by  Barthelemon  ; 

Concerto  on  the  violin,  by  Barthelemon ; 

A  rare  French  song,  by  Madame  Barthelemon  ; 

Trumpet  Concerto,  by  Master  Barthelemon  ; 

An  overture  in  Otho,  Handel — bah  ! 

A  favourite  song  translated  from  the  French, 

Music  and  words  by  Monsieur  Barthelemon ; 

A  new  Burletta,  '  Cupid  and  the  Titan,' 

By  Chatterton,  but  set  by  Barthelemon. — 

Ye  gods  !  the  printer  has  made  one  mistake  : 

Fireworks,  and  not  set  off  by  Barthelemon  ! 

Barthelemon.   Ah,  c'  est  trop  fort ! 

\_The  macaronis  and  the  girls,  who  have  been  enjoy- 
ing the  quarrel,  now  burst  into  a  laugh. 

Phillips.  Speak  less  loud  : 

You  are  attracting  notice. 

Chatterton.  Friend  Barthelemon, 

If  you  obscure  a  syllable — but  one — 
Louis  will  lose  a  subject — do  you  hear  ? 

Barthelemon.   Pardieu  ! 

Chatterton.     But  let  the  words  have  scope  to-night, 
And  you  thereafter  shall  have  your  own  will. 

Barthelemon.   Ze  vords  to-night  ? 
130 


ZlDan?  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 


Chatterton.  To-night. 

Barthelemon.  Ze  music  den  ? 

Chatterton.  Then  let  your  battery  open  on  my  lines 
And  blow  them  into  dust. — Are  you  agreed  ? 

Barthelemon.   Oui,  oui ! 

Chatterton.  Your  hand  on  that. 

Barthelemon.  Volontiers ! 

First   Gentleman.    A   peaceful    ending    to   a   tragic 
theme 
Ensures  the  vulgar  plaudits  of  the  pit.      [  Claps  his  hands. 

First  Girl.   That  must  be  Chatterton. 

First  Gentleman.  Nay,  Cupid,  dear, 

Contending  with  the  Titan. 

Second  Girl.  Lovely  boy  ! 

Phillips.     \_To    Chatterton   who  turns   angrily  to  the 
jesters.  ] 
Do  not  be  nettled — it  is  only  sport. 

Chatterton.   I  can  tell  sport  from  insult  by  the  smell. 

Second    Gentleman.     By   Jove  !     he    ruffled   up    his 
feathered  neck 
Like  bantam  in  a  cock-pit. 

First  Gentleman.  Cupid,  Harry  : 

Ride  on  the  figure  till  its  race  is  run. 

First  Girl.    Are  not  the  darts  of  Cupid   forged  in 
France  ? 

J31 


act  iv.]  Zbc  Baro  of 


First  Gentleman.  The  leaden  ones  in  England  for  the 

French. 
Second  Gentleman.     Does  Mother  Venus  know  her 
son's  abroad 
At  this  late  hour  of  night  ? 

Second  Girl.  Love's  day  is  night. 

First  Gentleman.  Nimble  Apollo  could  not  dodge  his 
darts — 
How  foolish  in  the  Frenchman  ! 

Chatterton.    \_Going  to  the  table, .]      Gentlemen  ! 
First  Gentleman.   [Faying  no  attention  to  Chatterton.~\ 
Where  were  the  vans  of  Cupid  ? 

Phillips.  Tom ! 

Chatterton.    [Slapping  the  fop  in  the  face. ~\      There's 
one  ! 
How  do  you  like  its  flapping  ? 

First  Gentleman.    [Leaping  to  his  feet.~\    Ill-mannered 
boy ! 
You  die  for  this. 

Chatterton.  My  death  before  my  epitaph. 

Enter  Francisco. 
First  Girl.   O  Edward  ! 

Second  Girl.  There's  a  tremor  in  his  voice  ! 

Second  Gentleman.    All  of   our  jests  were  born  of 
purest  fun. 

132 


ZlDarp  IRefccliffe*  [act  iv. 

Chatterton.   I  slapped  his  face  in  fun. 

First    Gentleman.     [Drawing  his   sword. ~\      Defend 
yourself. 

Phillips.  He  knows  no  thrust  nor  parry — it  is  murder ! 

First  Gentleman.  Then  should  he  have  a  nurse. 

Phillips.    [Despairingly  to  Chatterton.~\     You  are  un- 
skilled ! 

Chatterton.     [Shaking  Phillips   off  and  drawing  his 
sword.  ] 
My  skill  is  inspiration  ! — Stand  apart. 

[They  cross  swords. 

Francisco.    [Striking  up  the  weapons.  ] 
This  quarrel's  mine  ! 

Chatterton.  I  am  sufficient,  sir. 

Francisco.  The  first  abused  should  be  the  first  avenged. 
I'll  have  a  bout  with  him  and  then  with  you  ; 
But  'tis  unfair  that  I  should  meet  you  both 
Without  a  breathing  spell. 

First  Gentleman.  What  plaint  have  you 

When  we  were  strangers  till  you  spoke  ? 

First  Girl.  Beware ! 

Francisco.   You  live  upon  the  same  revolving  globe, 
Eat  its  rare  products,  fill  its  choicest  space, 
You  breathe  the  air  I  crave,  and  childish  prate 
When  I  feel  eloquent. 

133 


act  iv.]  TTbe  3Bar&  ot 


First  Gentleman.  That  is  no  wrong. 

Francisco.  God's  death  !  'odsfish  !  and  all  the  royal 
oaths  ! 
You  give  the  lie  to  me  ? 

First  Girl.  It  is  Francisco  ! 

Francisco.  Pray,  who  is  he  ? — Have  at  you,  sir. 

Chatterton.  Forbear  ! 

First  Gentleman.   I  will  not  fight  with  you. 

Chatterton.  \To  Francisco.]        Come,  sir,  withdraw  ; 
For  though  your  knightly  purpose  is  not  hid, 
No  champion  shall  uphold  my  challenge,  sir  : 
This  quarrel  is  my  own. 

Phillips.  O  Tom,  dear  Tom  ! 

Francisco.  Well,  be  it  so  ;  and  you — you  popinjay  ! 
If  you  but  bleed  this  boy,  tell  o'er  your  beads  : 
You  are  as  good  as  dead. — Make  room  for  them  ; 
No  movement  and  no  sound.     Salute  !  salute  ! 

First  Girl.   He  shall  not  fight  ! 

Second  Girl.  No,  no  ! 

First  Gentleman.  I  will  not  fight. 

Chatterton.    \_To  Francisco. .] 
He  fears  but  you  :  please  leave  the  gardens,  sir  ; 
My  honour  is  at  stake. 

Francisco.  Not  with  an  ass. 

I'll  teach  you  how  to  change  from  tierce  to  carte 

134 


/H>arE  IRefccliffe,  [act  iv. 

With  speed  of  lightning  in  its  dazzling  stroke ; 
And  you  can  kill  him  at  your  leisure,  lad. 

First  Gentleman.   We'll  drink  a  quart  of  arrack,  and 
then  part 
As  gentlemen  by  error  made  fast  friends. 

Francisco.   Reserve  your  wine  for  your  Dutch  cour- 
age.— Go  ! 
And  take  the  baggage  with  you.      Do  not  pause  : 
My  bloodless  sword  is  blushing  in  its  sheath. 

First  Girl.   It  is  Francisco  ! 

Second  Girl.  Or  the  devil  sure  ! 

Francisco.  Either  may  be  Truth's  minister. — Begone  ! 
\_Exeunt  the  macaronis  and  the  girls. 

Bar  the lemon.    \Tremblingly  to  Chatterton.~\ 
Ze  music  vill  be  soft.     Adieu  !  adieu  !  [Exit. 

Chatterton.   A  great  musician  and,  perforce,  a  fool. 

Francisco.   Put  up  your  sword.     When  you  salute, 
my  boy, 
I'd  rather  be  your  foemen  than  your  friend  : 
I  nearly  lost  an  eye.     You  must  be  taught 
The  art  of  fawning  or  the  art  of  fence  ; 
For  a  manly  temper  and  an  awkward  sword 
Are  dangerous  companions. 

Chatterton.  I  owe  you  much, 

And  thank  you  from  my  heart. 
x35 


act  iv.]  ube  Baro  of 


Phillips.  A  thousand  thanks  ! 

Francisco.  'Odsfish  !    I  would  have  done  as  much  for 
sport. 

Phillips.  If  you  but  knew  the  value — 

Francisco.  I  will  learn. 

\Then  turning  to  Chatterton.] 
You  are  so  young  and  are  so  full  of  life, 
My  eyes  begin  to  sparkle  with  your  youth. 
Tell  me  your  hopes  that  I  may  live  again 
My  days  of  esperance. — Sit  down,  my  lads. 
[  Then  after  they  are  seated.  ] 
Will  you  have  wine  ? 

Phillips.  I  seldom  drink  it,  sir. 

Francisco.  And  you  ? 

Chatterton.   My  father  drowned  in  that  red  flood — 
No  wine  for  me. 

Francisco.  Peace  to  his  spirit,  lad. — 

I,  too,  abstain  ;  for  tippling  interferes 
So  rudely  with  my  business,  which  needs  haste, 
And  would  be  ruined  by  a  muddled  mind.  — 
You  live  in  London  ? 

Chatterton.  I  was  born  in  Bristol ; 

But  left  that  sordid  place  three  months  ago. 
Since  then  I  have  been  writing  vigorous  truths 

136 


ZlDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

For  Wilkes  and  Liberty  against  King  George 
And  his  Scotch  favourites. 

Francisco.  You  wrote  in  verse  ? 

Chatterton.   Partly  in  verse,  but  mostly  in  vile  prose  : 
My  Muse  was  virgin  till  she  came  to  town. 

Francisco.  Were  you  successful  ? 

Chatterton.  I  was  nearly  made, 

And  soon  would  have  been  haled  unto  the  Tower  ; 
But  Lord  Mayor  Beckford  died  and  dashed  my  hopes. 
Fell  is  in  King's  Bench,  Hamilton  is  mean, 
And  all  the  other  publishers  are  prudes 
From  recent  prosecutions. — Were  Fate  to  break 
The  silvered  promise  of  this  moonlit  night, 
I  should  be  like  young  Harry  Wildfire,  sir  : 
Throned  on  a  broken  chair  within  an  inch 
Of  a  thunder-cloud. 

Francisco.  That  cloud  must  never  burst. — 

Have  you  no  poems  with  you  ? 

Chatterton.  \_Taking  out  manuscripts. ,]     Four  or  five  : 
The  Balade  of  Charitie  and  several  more. 

Francisco.  Entrust  them  to  me  ;  they  shall  be  returned 
Within  a  fortnight.     Where  do  you  reside  ? 

Chatterton.  At  Mrs.  Angell's,  Brooke  Street,  Holborn, 
sir. 

137 


act  iv.]  Zbc  JBaro  of 


Francisco.   I  have  a  friend,  the  Reverend  Dr.  Fry, 
My  college  chum  though  we  are  far  apart. — 
Why  are  you  here  to-night  ? 

Chatterton.  Well,  you  must  know 

That  I  have  written  poems  in  Old  English. 

Francisco.   I  knew  you  were  a  poet  from  the  first ; 
For  fire  runs  liquid  in  your  nether  eye. 

Chatterton.  To  all  the  world  and  to  a  man  that  owns 
A  private  press  to  give  them  to  the  world, 
Those  poems  are  antique.     That  man  is  here 
With  her  who  holds  me  past  the  fold  of  dreams ; 
And  my  Burletta  will  unveil  the  truth. 
The  songs  are  mine — be  bounteous,  you  stars  ! 
This  night  is  mine  ! — I  should  have  killed  that  fop 
Had  he  been  master  of  all  tricks  of  fence  ! 

Francisco.    [Pouring  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  rising.  ] 
To  Thomas  Chatterton  and  his  success, 
Captain  Francisco  drinks  with  thirsty  soul 
His  first  and  his  last  glass  of  wine  ! 

Phillips.  Francisco  \ 

Chatterton.   I  thought  as  much.      How  is  it  that  you 
bear 
The  name  of  one  who  levied  toll  on  Metz 
In  sage  Agrippa's  day? 

Francisco.  I  stole  it,  lad, 

138 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

From  that  bold  bandit  to  conceal  my  own, 

An  honoured  name  made  so  by  sack  and  slaughter.— 

You've  read  Agrippa? 

Chatterton.  Paracelsus,  too ; 

And  Count  Gabalis,  who  in  part  reveals 
The  mystic  People  of  the  Elements. 

Francisco.   I  have  not  read  his  treatise. 

Chatterton.  It  describes 

The  Gnomes,  composed  of  subtlest  parts  of  earth, 
Guardians  of  treasures,  mines,  and  precious  stones 
In  subterranean  realms  ;  the  Salamanders, 
Born  of  pure  fire  and  dancing  in  its  flames, 
Of  wondrous  beauty  both  in  wit  and  form, 
Though,  like  the  poets,  they  have  been  maligned 
By  those  that  knew  them  not ;  the  watery  Nymphs, 
Fairer  than  Fancy  ever  paints  the  fair, 
Running  with  rippling  laughter  to  the  sea 
And  lolling  on  its  roll  at  liquid  ease ; 
The  Sylphs,  the  rarest  atoms  of  the  air, 
Basking  in  rainbows,  drifting  on  the  clouds 
Like  dreams  above  our  state,  or  in  the  sweep 
And  swirl  of  wintry  tempests,  howling  loud — 
The  wolves  of  the  wind  ;  for  they  are  soulless  things 
Till  in  a  maiden's  passionate  embrace 
They  find  immortal  life. — You  smile  at  this  ? 

*39 


act  iv.]  XTbe  IBaro  of 


What  is  to-day  and  was  not  in  the  past 
Has  always  been  ;  and  what  will  be  is  now. 
The  found  is  true,  the  undiscovered  false — 
That  is  the  world's  religion. 

Francisco.  But  not  mine, 

Though  threefold  wrapped  within  Tartarean  shade. — 
Give  me  your  purse. 

Chatterton.  'Tis  lean  as  lustful  Amnon  ; 

For  all  that  this  Burletta  brought  was  spent 
On  gifts  and  dress.     Were  I  a  poet  true, 
I  would  not  squander  so  much  on  my  back 
When  my  dear  head  is  needy. — Take  it,  sir. 

[Throws  his  purse  upon  the  table. 

Francisco.   Six  shillings  and  three  pennies. 

Chatterton.  Nine — ill  luck  ! 

Og,  King  of  Bashan,  was  nine  cubits  high. 

Francisco.     I'll    take    a   penny  :     it   shall    interest 
bear, 
Though  you  are  now  the  richer  of  the  two. 

[Returns  the  purse  and  rises  to  depart. 

Chatterton.  Would  I  could  utter  the  Mirific  word 
To  summon  angels  with  its  wave  of  sound  ! 
Be  well  advised  ;  you  stand  against  the  world, 
And  Chance  is  fickle  to  her  fondlings,  sir. 

140 


jflDarE  IRefccliffe*  [act  iv. 

Francisco.  [  Taking  a  phial  of  poison  from  his  pocket.  ] 
When  she  proves  false,  and  it  may  be  to-night, 
They  shall  ride  fast  that  overtake  me,  lad. 

Chatter  ton.    [Snatching  the  phial  from  his  handi\ 
I'll  have  this  for  my  penny  ! 

Francisco.  A  fair  exchange  : 

Powder  is  ruder  but  it  breaks  the  shell. 

Chatterton.  You  must  not  keep  the  devil  in  your  pay  ; 
For  there  are  moments  when  God  seems  to  sleep, 
And  they  are  hard  to  pass  through. 

Francisco.  More  than  hard. 

Chatterton.   I'll  earn  enough  for  both. 

Francisco.  Inspiring  boy  ! 

May  nothing  harsher  than  a  moonbeam  fall 
Athwart  your  path. — Good-bye.  [Exit  Francisco. 

Chatterton.  I'll  save  him  yet ; 

For  peerless  charity  God  dare  not  damn, 
And  it  is  still  triumphant  in  his  breast ; 
And  I  will  beat  him,  too,  at  play  with  foils. — 
Sit  down,  dear  Phillips  :   we  must  have  a  talk. 
Mother  is  well,  you  say  ? 

Phillips.  As  when  you  left. 

Chatterton.  I  would  that  she  were  here  to  share  my 
glory. 

141 


act  iv.]  Ubc  Baro  of 


I  could  not  bear  that  you  should  be  away  ; 

My  mother  loves  me,  but  you  know  me,  friend. — 

The  presents  were  received  ? 

Phillips.  Yes,  all  of  them. 

Chatterton.  How  did  she  like  the  cups  and  saucers, 
Phillips  ? 

Phillips.  She  laughed  and  wept  with  joy. 

Chatterton.  I  would  have  sent 

A  china  tea-pot  and  a  cream -pot,  too, 
But  they  are  not  in  fashion,  I  believe  : 
Red  china,  which  she  has,  is  more  the  mode. 

Phillips.  The  snuff-box  won  the  favour  of  her  eye. 

Chatterton.   It  is  right  French  and  very  curious. 
The  silver  fan,  the  graver  of  the  two, 
Was  meant  for  her  ;  the  other  one  for  Mary. 
Sis  would  have  chosen  purple  flowered  with  gold, 
But  purple  and  pink  are  more  genteel  and  lively. 

Phillips.  She  was  well  pleased. 

Chatterton.  And  what  did  granny  say 

About  the  twisted  pipes  and  herb  tobacco  ? 

Phillips.   She  sat  down  in  the  ingle-nook  that  night, 
And  did  the  smoking  for  the  blazing  logs 
Till  we  peered  at  each  other  through  a  fog. 

Chatterton.  Did  Uncle  Richard  get  his  walking-stick  ? 

Phillips.  Not  till  your  mother  had  displayed  the  gifts 
142 


/iDars  IRefcclfffe.  [act  iv. 

To  all  the  neighbours,  saying  to  each  one 
'  See  what  my  son  has  sent  to  us.' 

Chatterton.  Dear  Mother  ! — 

What  is  there  new  in  Bristol  ? 

Phillips.  Thistlethwaite 

Is  now  head-master  of  the  Colston  School. 

Chatterton.  He  played  at  Brag  most  shrewdly  foul  and 
won. 
We  will  eat  passion-flower  and  die  of  laughing 
At  all  beflattered  fools  ! 

Phillips.  He  would  be  naught 

Beside  the  matchless  fervour  of  your  mind, 
Were  you  not  haughty  to  those  holding  power. 

Chatterton.   Let  me  not  live  till  T  grow  politic. 
Have  you  no  news  more  helpful  ? 

Phillips.  Only  this — 

'Tis  of  myself. 

Chatterton.  Oh,  tell  me  of  yourself  ! 

Phillips.  Well— well— I  fear— 

Chatterton.  Am  I  not  part  of  you, 

And  do  you  hesitate  ?     You  wrong  us  both. 

Phillips.   I  scarce  know  how — 

Chatterton.  Think  to  yourself  aloud. 

Phillips.   I  loved  your  sister  Mary  from  the  time — 

Chatterton.   You  are  betrothed  ? 
J43 


act  iv.]  Ube  33ar&  of 


Phillips.  We  are. 

Chatterton.  The  moon  is  full, 

And  unleashed  billows  bound  and  bay  with  joy  ! 
You  will  be  brother  to  me  in  the  law 
As  you  have  been  in  love. — My  brother  Phillips  ! 
[Seizes  his  hand  and  Phillips  coughs. ,] 
You  have  a  cough  ! — I  learned  enough  of  physic 
From  William  Barrett  to  cure  current  ills. 
If  you  neglect  your  health  you  hazard  mine  ; 
For  you  are  needful  as  this  fleshly  frame 
To  stay  my  spirit's  flight  :   I  almost  die 
In  your  imagined  death. 

Phillips.  The  cold  is  slight : 

The  tears  and  yearning  for  the  lost  be  mine. 

Enter  Walpole,  Bertha,  and  Burgum. 

Walpole.  How  scrub  these  gardens  are  !     But  for  the 
lamps, 
'Twould  be  a  common  night. 

Bertha.  Not  so  to  me. 

Walpole.  Great  Youth, my  child,  feels  with  poetic  limbs 
And  sees  with  poetic  eyes ;  but  Art  must  be 
As  plumb  as  Abishag  to  warm  me  now. — 
There's  Chatterton. 

Burgum.  I  must  consult  with  him 

About  my  Pedigree  and  Coat-of-arms. 

144 


/Ears  IRe&cliffe.  [act  iv. 

Walpole.  When  does  your  play  begin  ? 

Chatterton.  In  half  an  hour ; 

It  follows  the  Welsh  harpist. 

Walpole.  Is  it  brief? 

Chatterton.  As  brief  as  patience. 

Walpole.  Then  it  is  not  long. 

Chatterton.  A  Locke  in  logic  ! 

Walpole.    \_Turning  to  Bertha. ~\      He  is  very  rough. 

Bertha.  The  question  was  not  polished, 

Walpole.  True,  indeed : 

Each  author  is  laconic  to  himself. — 
Tell  us  the  plot. 

Chatterton.  The  scene  of  my  Burletta 

Is  on  Mount  Olympus  'mong  the  heathen  gods, 
And  Cupid  is  the  culprit — he  writes  verse. 

Walpole.  Poetry  is  gone  to  bed  or  into  prose : 
I  fear  it  is  all  fustian. 

Chatterton.  Have  no  fear  : 

It  is  all  fustian  •  but,  like  Hamlet's  play, 
Its  purpose  is  poetic — that  is  all. 
Come,  Phillips,  to  prepare  it  for  the  King. 

\Exeunt  Chatterton  and  Phillips. 

Walpole.  Follow  him  closely,  sir,  if  you  wish  sane 
Coherent  answers  ;  for  his  looks  and  speech 
Border  on  Moorfields  now. 

10  145 


act  iv.]  Ube  3Baro  of 


Burgum.  That  is  most  wise.      \_Exit  Burgum. 

Walpole.    We'll   sit    near  Milton,    for   the   bard   is 
blind. 

Bertha.   One  sense  deposed  flies  to  another's  aid ; 
And  he  is  listening. 

Walpole.  Delicately  keen 

As  Madame  de  Sevigne  !  yet  you  choose 
To  bloom  in  desert  air,  like  friend  Gray's  flower. 

Bertha.   Flowers  in  their  clime  and  maidens  in  their 
sphere 
Are  wards  of  Nature. 

Walpole.  Bravo  !  the  chef-d'oeuvre 

Of  wit  and  eloquence,  but  not  of  truth  ; 
For  genial  strangeness  in  a  foreign  soil 
Oft  quickens  plants  and  mortals.     At  the  Castle 
My  large  laburnums  pass  their  Alpine  sires, 
As  do  my  orange  trees  their  tropic  kin. 

Bertha.    [Pointing  to  one  of  the  orange  trees. ,] 
Behold  my  witness  with  its  hollowed  fruit 
Aglow,  like  sin,  with  artificial  light. — 
'Twill  soon  be  cast  aside. 

Walpole.  True  but  not  apt ; 

For  words  felicitous  may  falsely  shine. 
Our  poets,  following  the  Romans,  sing 
Of  cooling  breezes  in  the  summer's  warmth  ; 

146 


/lDar£  iRefcclfffe.  [act  iv. 

But  Zephyr  here  becomes  a  north-east  wind, 
And  our  best  sun  is  made  of  Newcastle  coal. 
Bertha.   Put  out  the  sun  and  see. 

Walpole.    \Laughing.~\  I  own  defeat 

In  rhetoric  but  not  reason,  Lady  Clever, 
And,  flying  from  all  figures,  shall  be  frank. 
Last  month  at  Stowe,  attendant  on  the  Princess, 
I  could  not  help  comparing  you,  my  dear, 
In  mind  and  beauty  and  the  flush  of  youth, 
With  Lady  Temple,  Lady  Mary  Coke, 
Lady  Anne  Howard  and  a  dozen  dames. — 
You  are  a  star  unsphered. 

Bertha.  Then,  like  a  star, 

I  shall  glide  twinkling  in  an  orbit  strange 
Till  custom  make  it  mine. — And  now,  dear  sir, 
Kindly  make  choice  of  some  more  worthy  theme. 

Walpole.  Nay,  by  your  leave ;  for  I  have  waited  long 
To  bring  this  subject  on  the  tapis,  my  love. 
[The  sounds  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  heard.~\ 
Erato  strikes  her  lyre  ! 

Bertha.  Court  gallantry ! 

Walpole.   Listen  ;  and  let  not  modesty  deny 
What  candour  must  approve.     You  have  rare  wit 
And  beauty  coupled  with  a  feline  form 
Whose  every  movement  breeds  a  fond  desire  : 

147 


act  iv.]  Ube  3Barfc  ot 


Wit  needs  applause  and  beauty  needs  a  glass  ; 
And  these  are  not  in  Bristol  but  in  London 
Among  the  leisured  few.     You  shall  o'erpeer 
The  proudest  lords  and  ladies  in  the  land ; 
You  shall  meet  Gray,  a  gentlemanly  bard 
That  leans  not  on  eccentric  dress  or  phrase, 
Like  stuttering  Goldsmith  or  the  beastly  Johnson  ; 
You  shall  put  Rowley's  poems  into  print; 
Nourish  wild  Chatterton,  if  so  you  please, 
And  watch  his  weedy  growth  ;  though  I  admit 
That,  in  the  witching  atmosphere  you  shed, 
I  hope  to  win  your  sanction  and  the  world's 
With  chiming  numbers  and  with  tolling  prose  ; 
For,  though  I  say  it,  I  am  not  untried. 

Bertha.  How  can  I  work  these  wonders  ? 

Walpole.  By  a  word — 

A  '  yes  '  to  one  small  question. 

Bertha.  Ask  it,  sir. 

Walpole.    Will    you   be  mine  ? — pardon,  may   I   be 
yours? 

Bertha.  A  step  with  Folly  means  a  dangerous  stroll ! 
I  think  you  know,  sir,  that  I  am  surprised. 

Walpole.  Whate'er  you  say  I  know;  be  you  as  trust- 
ful. 

Bertha.   I'll  be  as  true. 

148 


flDarp  IRefcclfffe.  [act  iv. 

Walpole.  Why  did  I  hear  with  patience 

That  Ode  to  Freedom  by  a  prentice  read  ? 
Why  did  I  linger  long  in  tiresome  Bristol  ? 
Why  did  I  tice  your  father  to  my  house  ? 
Why  have  I  borne  the  insults  of  that  boy, 
And  now  am  here  to  patron  his  Burletta  ? 

Bertha.   I  dread  the  answer. 

Walpole.  'Twas  for  you,  for  you. 

Bertha.   My  indiscretion  is  so  near  a  crime, 
Who  will  believe  me  guiltless  ? 

Walpole.  Your  servant,  lady. 

Bertha.   I  did  not  purpose  to  mislead — 

Walpole.  To  guide. 

Bertha,  The  years  between  us — 

Walpole.  Are  a  stony  brook 

Across  which  you  can  step  with  gathered  skirts 
And  wet  nor  boots  nor  lace.     Appraise  these  truths  : 
My  love  is  not  the  sparrow-hawk  of  youth, 
Which  seizes  wit  and  beauty  as  its  due, 
But  like  an  eagle — constant,  strong,  and  poised. 
I  have  the  wealth  and  station  to  command 
Whate'er  prolongs  life's  spring  and  makes  it  lush, 
And  you  are  in  your  flower.     A  younger  man 
Must  struggle  blindly  through  a  yellow  fog, 
Dragging  you  with  him  in  his  mad  pursuit 

149 


act  iv.]  XTbe  !Baro  of 


Till  all  desire  has  flown  the  weary  heart 
And  damning  wrinkles  come. 

Bertha.  Two  souls  ne'er  love 

Till  scars  record  the  battles  won  together. 

Walpole.  Some  scars  I  have  that  tell  of  conflicts  past ; 
And  there  are  victories  still  for  us  to  gain 
From  knightly  foemen,  not  from  howling  mobs 
With  brutal  bludgeons  armed.    And  when  peace  comes, 
Like  sunset's  glow,  I  shall  not  be  too  old 
For  the  enchantment  of  a  maiden's  voice 
Or  wildest  rapture  in  her  trembling  arms. 

Bertha.   Oh,  whither  are  we  drifting  ? 

Walpole.  Ask  not  whither  : 

Love  laughs  at  harbours  and  the  future,  dear, 
When  in  his  gondola  beneath  the  moon 
On  music -laden  waters. 

Bertha.  We  waste  words  : 

I  could  not  be  your  wife. 

Walpole.  No,  not  my  wife 

Till  some  slight  obstacles  have  been  removed, 
For  what  we  scorn  is  potent  in  our  lives ; 
But  formal  marriage  is  a  fool's  device 
Wisely  to  govern  fools. 

Bertha.    \Rising  excitedly. ~\     Your  mistress,  then. 

Walpole.  My  wife  in  all  save  name. 


flDan?  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

Bertha.  Your  paramour  ? 

Walpole.  Love  is  Love's  only  name  in  English,  love, 

Bertha.   I  would  that  Hatred  had  a  single  term, 
That  I  could  ease  my  bosom  with  a  word, 
For  loathing  chokes  me  ! 

Walpole.    \Rising  in  alarm. ~\      Compose  yourself,  I 
beg. 

Bertha.   And  I  have  listened  ! 

Walpole.  Listen  to  the  end. 

My  father  had  a  mistress  whom  he  wed 
When  time  and  circumstance  approved  the  act ; 
But  ere  the  nuptials  I  esteemed  their  child 
My  rightful  sister. 

Bertha.  She  shared  not  the  shame. 

Walpole.    Chaste  country  morals  have  no  place  at 
court ; 
For  peers  have  privilege  wisely  held  from  boors, 
Who  slabber  gravy  like  roast  beef  new  cut, 
And  must  be  tethered  as  promiscuous  bulls 
Reserved  for  breeding  are. 

Bertha.  I'll  hear  no  more  : 

My  ears  have  been  denied  ! 

Walpole.    \_Embracing  her.~\     You  must  consent. 

Bertha.  Oh,  let  me  go  ! 

Walpole.  When  you  have  promised,  sweet. 


act  iv.]  Ube  JBaro  of 


Bertha.    Stop  !     I  will  rouse  the  gardens  with   my 
cries  ! 

Enter  Francisco  masked. 

Francisco.  Good  evening,  Horry  ! — You  appear  per- 
turbed. 
Kisses  patch  quarrels  with  a  light-o'-love. 

Walpole.    [As  Bertha  sinks  upon  the  seat.~\ 
You  wear  a  mask — this  is  not  a  ridotto. 

Francisco.  We  all  wear  masks  ;  for  life  is  a  ridotto. 

Walpole.   I  do  not  know  you,  sir. 

Francisco.  A  plague  on  fame  ! 

Captain  Francisco  at  your  service,  sir. 

Walpole.  Captain  Francisco  ! 

Francisco.  Am  I  still  unknown  ? 

Walpole.  Do  not  alarm  the  lady. 

Francisco.  Not  to  find 

The  Fount  of  Youth  and  Water-Stone  of  the  Wise ; 
Though  she,  I  fear,  is  past  her  virgin  fright, 
Or  giddy  Lust  has  mounted  to  your  head 
And  left  your  body  stingless. 

Bertha.  Spare  me,  sir. 

Walpole.  Help  here  !  thieves  !  thieves  ! 

Francisco.    [Seizing  him  by  the  throat !\ 

That  Welshman  saved  your  life  : 
Had  you  been  heard,  you  had  not  croaked  again. 

i52 


flDar£  IRetalfffe*  [act  iv. 

Bertha.   He's  unprepared  ! 

Francisco.  And  will  be  to  his  death, 

Though  he  should  rival  Enoch's  yeared  son. — 
Your  purse.     Be  quick  !   I  have  the  Spanish  heart 
Which  Aztec  gold  allays. 

Walpole.   \_Givingiip  his  purse. ~\    There  ;  leave  us,  sir. 

Francisco.  The  lady's  purse  :  you  shall  buy  her  an- 
other, 
And  keep  it  plenteous  as  the  fabled  horn. 
Age  must  pay  dear  to  see  his  wrinkled  face 
Reflected  in  the  amorous  eyes  of  Youth, 
Or  lie  with  Dreams.  [Takes  Bertha' s purse. 

Walpole.  You  have  our  purses — go. 

Francisco.    [Passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes.~\ 
My  eyes  are  bloodshot — ah,  that  garnet  stone  ! 
I  have  the  sulphur,  you  may  well  believe, 
But  lack  the  gem  for  Paracelsian  salve. 
[  Takes  Walpole1  s  pin.  ] 
Your   snuff-box   and   your    rings. — God's   death  !    be 

quick  : 
To  dawdle  o'er  a  gift  makes  taking  theft. 
[Takes  the  snuff-box  and  the  rings. ~\ 
Were  you  alone,  I'd  strip  you  naked,  sir, 
And  let  the  world  behold  the  shrunken  skin 
That  cloaks  your  meagre  soul. 

153 


act  iv.]  Zbc  35aro  of 


Walpole.  Now  you  have  all. 

Francisco.   That  bracelet,  lady. 

Bertha.  Any  thing  but  that : 

'Twas  given  me — 

Francisco.  I  take  it  is  a  gift. 

\Then  after  examining ;'/.] 

Rare  Roman  coins — the  dangling  themes  for  song ! 
And  I  know  one  who  can  their  tinkling  turn 
To  canticles  that  would  make  Tiber  thrill 
And  dream  his  halcyon  days  were  come  again. 
I  rob  you,  lady,  to  enrich  the  Muse. — 
That  plain  gold  band. 

Bertha.  My  mother's  wedding-ring  ! 

Francisco.   Keep  it  and  use  it  as  your  mother  did. 
[A  bell  rings."] 

The  boy's  Burletta  ! — He  must  have  the  stage. 
'Odsfish  !  I  would  not  bring  the  youngster's  play 
In  contrast  with  the  gaudy  scenes  of  life 
Before  a  throng  of  worldlings ;  so  adieu. 
May  you  be  wealthier,  sir,  when  next  we  meet 
Is  your  poor  servant's  prayer.  [Exit  Francisco. 

Bertha.  I  feel  ashamed 

As  if  I  were  the  shameless  thing  he  named. 

Walpole.  But  hear  me. 

Bertha.  Take  me  to  my  father,  sir. 

154 


/iDars  IRefcclfffe,  [act  iv. 

Walpole.  Have  mercy,  lady  !  I  was  crazed  with  love. 

Bertha.  Call  you  that  love  ? — True  Love  would  die  of 
love 
Ere  he  would  base  his  love  with  lawless  glance. 

Walpole.     Law    can    not   pasture    Nature   on    green 
baize. 
Fate  is  to  blame  :   had  consequences  smiled, 
I  would  have  offered  you — 

Bertha.  I've  heard  enough  : 

To  parley  with  seduction  is  to  fall. — 
I'll  find  my  father,  sir,  without  your  aid. 

Enter  Chatterton,  Phillips,  Burgum,  and  the 
People. 

Walpole.   Delay  revenge,  if  you  must  have  revenge 
On  one  whose  passion  leaped  the  pale  of  pride  : 
'Twould  ruin  his  Burletta  ! — There  he  comes. 

Chatterton.  The  curtain  soon  will  rise ;  prepare  your- 
selves. 
I'll  keep  the  moblings  in  their  proper  tier. 
Sit  on  this  bench  ;  I'll  clarify  the  plot. 
[Drags  the  seat  round  a?id  then  speaks  to  the  people.  ] 
Stand  back  ;  beyond  this  line  of  vision,  please  ! 

Voice  from  crowd.   I  paid  a  half-crown  for  the  right 
to  see  ! 

Chatterton.  Nay,  sir,  you  bought  a  pint  of  Frontiniac 

155 


act  iv.]  XTbe  Baro  of 


In  the  Rose  of  Normandy  and  own  all  France. 

A  jub  of  ale  would  give  you  title  clear 

To  this  fair  Isle  in  fee.  \_The people  laugh. 

GirP  s  Voice.  What  is  the  price 

Of  boyish  kisses,  sweet  ? 

Chatterton.  Your  virtue,  dear.  [Laughter. 

Woman's  Voice.   His  eyes  be  bright  as  Peggy-wi'-t'- 
wisp, 
But  bring  me  some  as  can  kiss  me  wi'  might. 
Chatterton.  How  are  the  Yorkshire  yokels  ? 

[Laughter. 
Man's  Voice.  With  that  sword 

He  looks  like  a  fly  empaled  upon  a  pin. 

Chatterton.  Be  not  amazed,   old  rump-steak,  at  my 
presence : 
Flies  have  the  sense  of  smell,  and  you  are  high. 

[Laughter. 
GirPs  Voice.     He  is  Love's  pet ! 
Woman's  Voice.  I'd  give  my  cat  for  him  ! 

Chatterton.  An  old  maid  sure,  or  she  would  have  a  dog. 
[Laughter  as  the  music  begins. ~\ 
The  play  is  on  !     Be  silent,  gentle  friends, 
And  keep  good-humoured  like  an  English  crowd ; 
For  we  are  on  Olympus  with  the  gods  ! 

[The  curtain  rises  disclosing  the  top  of  Mount  Olym- 
156 


flDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

pus  with  Jupiter,  Juno,  Apollo,   Venus,  Bacchus, 
and  other   gods    and  goddesses    seated    on   the 
clouds. 
Chorus.   [Air.] 

Scrape,  ye  fiddlers,  tinkle,  tinkle, 
Music  makes  my  twinklers  twinkle ; 

Humming, 

Thrumming, 

Groaning, 

Toning, 

Squeaking, 

Shrieking, 

Bawling, 

Squalling, 
O  the  sweet  charms  of  tinkle,  tinkle  ! 

Jupiter.  [Recitative^ 
Now  by  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Styx, 
Which,  like  the  Avon,  tempers  fools  and  bricks, 
No  music  cheers  me  now.  [  Weeps. 

Chorus.  Why  this  excretion  ? 

Sorrow  finds  solace  only  in  repletion. 

Jupiter.  Fair  Semele  is  dead  ! 
Chorus.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

That  godless  things  on  earth  should  come  to  pass. 

Jupiter.   She  melted  in  my  arms. 

Juno.  She  froze,  you  mome, 

Or  you  were  warmer  than  you  are  at  home. 

157 


act  iv.]  Zbc  38ar&  ot 


Jupiter.  Nor  can  my  wife  this  burning  grief  assuage, 
For  Juno's  forty  thousand  years  of  age. 

Juno,  But  twenty-seven  thousand,  you  old  brute ! 
And  lustier  than  your  thundership  to  boot. 

Jupiter.  To  twenty-seven  women  cling  till  fifty : 
In  years,  and  only  years,  our  wives  are  thrifty. 
Juno.  \_Air.~\ 

I  will  never  tamely  bear 
All  these  wrongs  and  slights,  sir  ; 
Heaven  and  all  the  gods  shall  hear 
How  you  spend  your  nights,  sir. 
Drinking,  swearing, 
Roaring,  tearing, 
Wenching,  roving  everywhere ; 
Whilst  poor  I 
At  home  must  lie, 
Wishing,  scheming, 
Sighing,  dreaming, 
Grasping  nothing  but  the  air. 

Woman's  Voice.  Jove's  very  like  my  husband  ! 
Women's  Voices.  And  like  mine.      [Laughter. 

Jupiter.    [Recitative.] 
Hence,  thou  eternal  tempest,  from  our  regions, 
And  yell  in  concert  with  infernal  legions  ! 

Bacchus.   [Staggering  and  holding- aloft  his  bowl. ~\ 
'Odsniggers,  Sire  !  I  know  your  sad  condition, 
And  I  will  be  your  majesty's  physician. 

158 


ZiDarE  IRefccliffe.  [act  iv. 

Man! s  Voice.  That's  Bacchus  with  a  bowl  of  royal- 
bob  !  \Laughter. 

Bacchus.  [Air.] 

Fill  the  bowl  and  fill  it  high, 
Vast  as  the  extended  sky  ! 
Since  the  dire  disease  is  known 
Wine's  the  balm  to  cure  the  wound. 

Jupiter.  |  Recitative, .] 
You  hogshead  of  liquor  and  its  bitter  lees  ! 
Nor  wine  nor  brandy  now  can  give  me  ease 
Chorus.  Cure  him,  Apollo  ! 

Apollo.  Sire,  at  your  desire, 

I'll  strike  my  lyre,  and  light  your  wonted  fire. 

Jupiter.  That  rimes  too  glibly  to  be  more  than  gab  ; 
The  modern  Muse  is  nothing  but  a  drab. 

Venus.  Cupid,  my  liege,  awaits  your  royal  pleasure 
To  chant  some  verses  writ  in  modern  measure. 
Jupiter.  [Laughing.]     Cupid  write  poems  ? — he  is  but  a 

boy  ! 
Venus.  Boys  frequent  add  to  our  celestial  joy. 
Jupiter.  'Tis  Cupid  not  Adonis. — Well,  my  dear, 
I  can  deny  you  naught :  let  him  appear  ; 
But  have  the  arrows  taken  from  the  wight, 
For  I  have  no  fair  partner  for  the  night. 

[A  cloud  parts  and  Cupid  with  a  manuscript  appears 
Chorus.  That  boy  a  poet ! 

159 


act  iv.]  Ube  3Bart>  of 


Venus.  Hearken  to  his  lay. 

Cupid.  Peace,  heavenly  rakes  and  strumpets,  or  away ! 
Jupiter.  Begin  the  reading  ;  not  another  word  ; 
But  for  fond  Venus,  you  had  not  been  heard. 

Cupid.  [  Unrolling  his  manuscript  and  chanting.] 

The  pleasing  sweets  of  spring  and  summer  past, 
The  falling  leaf  flies  in  the  sultry  blast. 

Burgum.   That's  Chatterton's  rendering  of  de  Berg- 
ham's  song  ! 

Cupid.  The  fields  resign  their  spangling  orbs  of  gold, 
The  wrinkled  grass  its  silver  joys  unfold, — 

Jupiter.  Enough  !  enough  ! 

Chorus.  [Scornfully^     The  silver  joys  of  grass! 

Cupid.  You  gods  are  geese  and  Jupiter's  an  ass  ! 

Venus.    Be  calm,  dear  Cupid. 

Jupiter,  [feeling  in  his  pockets.]     By  my  horrid  head, 
If  I  find  thunderbolt,  I'll  strike  you  dead ! 

Cupid.  You  can  make  poets  suffer  but  not  die. 
Jupiter.  I  can  not  kill  a  poet  ? — boy,  you  lie ! 
[Then  after  a  fruitless  search^ 
Juno  has  robbed  my  breeches  over  night, 
And  I  am  thunderless  and  powerless  quite. 

Cupid.  If  my  poor  lay  excite  your  regal  scorn, 
I  have  a  Titan's  song — a  Titan  born 
Ere  you,  my  liege,  were  suckled  by  a  goat. 
Jupiter.  A  Titan's  song! — I  long  to  hear  each  note. 
1 60 


/iDars  iReteUffe.  [act  iv. 

Cupid.  Make  me  invisible  but  for  a  minute, 
And  I  will  show  your  godship  what  is  in  it. 
Jupiter.  Be  thou  unseen. 

Cupid.  Have  stringed  music  sound. 

Jupiter.  Cease  singing,  and  let  Bacchus'  bowl  go  round. 
[  While  the  bowl  is  passing  Jrom  immortal  to  immortal, 
Cupid  runs  a  quill  over  the  parchment. 

Chatterton.   He  antiquates  the  spelling  ! 
[  Cupid  rubs  something  on  it.  ] 

That  is  ochre, 
Gilding  it  like  the  Phrygian  touch  of  Age. 
[Cupid  sprinkles  it  with  a  powder. ~\ 
That's  charcoal  counterfeiting  cindered  years. 
[  Cvpid  crumples  it  in  his  hands.  ] 
It  must  have  creases  or  it  is  not  old. 
[Cupid  throws   it  upon  the  grouud  and  runs  his  Joot 

over  it, .] 
It  must  be  dusty  or  it  lacks  desert. — 
Were  he  in  Hades,  he  would  smoke  it,  too  ! 

Francisco.  [  Who  has  stood  in  the  background  unseen.] 
Olympus  now  will  echo  with  acclaim. 

Walpole.    [Turning  and  seeing  him.'] 
Arrest  that  villain  !     He  fleeced  me  to-night — 
Francisco  is  his  name  ! 

The  People.  Francisco  ? — oh  ! 

ii  161 


act  iv.]  Ube  JBaro  of 


[  General  consternation.      The  tnen  cry  out  '  Fran- 
cisco I '  the  women  scream,  and  the  actors  scurry 
from  the  stage.     Francisco  claps  a  mask  on  his 
face,   draws   a  pistol,   and  steps   into   the  open 
space. 
Francisco.  Who  will  arrest  Francisco,  when  the  gods 
Run  skimper  scamper  from  their  sacred  mount 
At  mention  of  his  name  ? 

Burgum.  In  the  King's  name — 

Francisco.  May  you  and  George  the  Third  be  damned 

together. 
A  Girl.   The  rogue  is  comely. 
Francisco.    \Dr awing  her  to  him  and  kissing  herJ\ 

And  your  lips  are  ripe. 
Now  boast  that  once  Francisco  kissed  you,  dear. 
Man's  Voice.   A  dozen  rush  upon  him  ! 
Woman's  Voice.  No,  I  beg  ! 

He  gave  us  money  when  we  were  in  need. 
Man' s  Voice.   He  helped  me  in  distress  ! 
Girl  s  Voice.  He  rescued  me  ! 

Chatterton.    Away  with    speed  ;    you  are  in  danger 

here  ! 
Francisco.   The  risk  is  slight ;  for  mobs  are  headless 

things. 
Chatterton.   But  my  Burletta — 
162 


flDars  IRefccltffe*  [act  iv. 

Francisco.  Pardon  me,  my  lad. 

Horry  should  die  for  this,  were  it  not  better 
To  let  the  gouty  creature  draw  his  breath 
Till  every  step  discharges  shooting  pains 
And  chalk-stones  issue  from  his  swelled  hands. — 
Good-night,  my  friends ;  to  follow  me  is  death.     [Exit. 
Chatterton.   Recall  the  actors. 
Walpole.  I  have  heard  enough. 

[  The  scream  and  bursting  of  a  rocket  arc  heard. 
The  People.   Fireworks  !   fireworks  ! 

[Exeunt  the  People. 
Chatterton.  The  play  is  overthrown. 

Walpole.   I  know  its  purport. 
Chatterton.  It  shall  be  made  clear  : 

I  am  old  Rowley,  and  his  works  are  mine  ! 

[The  hoofs  of  Francisco1  s  horse  galloping  away  are 
heard. 
Walpole.     I  will  not  trust   one    that    consorts  with 

thieves. 
Chatterton.  You  shall  have  proof. 
Walpole.  'Tis  woven  in  the  songs ; 

And  Gray  and  Mason  shall  unravel  them. 
I'll  call  on  you  and  tell  you  their  report. 

Bertha.    Old  Rowley's  works   are  yours? — Do    not 
profane 

163 


act  iv.]  XTbe  J3aro  of 


The  awful  silence  of  a  minstrel's  tomb, 
And  from  his  pulseless  temples  tear  the  wreath 
Of  mortal  frailty  and  of  deathless  song. — 
Twice  have  I  been  most  rudely  undeceived  : 
Take  me,  dear  father,  from  these  gardens,  please  ! 

[  Throws  herself  sobbing  into  her  father1  s  arms. 
Chatterton.   By  my  dead  father's  memory — 
Phillips.  Tom,  not  now  : 

You  shall  convince  them  when  the  time  is  meet. 

Burgum.  I'll  to  the  Heralds'  College  in  the  morn- 
ing. 
Bertha.  Take  me  away — my  sight  begins  to  reel  ! 
Walpole.    Have    courage,    lady. — To   the   carriage, 
quick  ! 

[Exeunt  Walpole,  Burgum,  and  Bertha. 
Chatterton.   Damn  Saturn's  searing  rays  ! — I  am  un- 
done. 
Is  this  the  fruitage  of  my  nurtured  dreams  ? 
Are  these  the  purple  berries  and  green  leaves 
Enwreathed  in  nectared  fragrance  for  the  brow 
Of  immortal  child  among  immortal  men  ? — 
I  will  write  scurvy  things  to  make  hell  laugh, 
And  gain  in  lust  what  I  have  lost  in  love. 

[Sinks  down  by  the  table  and  bows  his  head  upon 
his  arms. 

164 


flDars  IRefccIfffe,  [act  iv. 

Phillips.      [Putting    his   arm    round    him.~\       Dear 

Thomas  ! 
Chatterton.    \_Raising his  head.~\      Phillips,  were  it  not 
for  you — 
O  my  dear  brother,  were  it  not  for  you  ! 

\A?i  explosion  of  fireworks  and  the  shouts  of  the 
people  are  heard ;  the  gardens  are  lighted  by  the 
glow ;    and    Chatterton,  mastering  his   emotion, 
rises  quickly. ~\ 
Come,  Phillips,  let  us  see  the  fireworks  play. 
Curtain. 


165 


act  v.]  Ube  JSatto  ot 


ACT  FIFTH. 

Scene. — Chattertori  s  lodging.  A  garret  in  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Angell,  London.  The  floor  is  bare;  the  roof 
slopes  to  a  casement  at  the  back;  and  a  door,  at  the 
left,  opens  on  the  stairs.  Near  the  casement  is  a 
small  bedstead;  and  not  far  from  the  doorway  are 
rude  chairs  and  a  table,  on  which  are  a  lighted 
lamp,  a  few  old  books,  an  inkhorn,  and  quills  and 
manuscripts  in  disorder.  Many  scraps  of  paper  are 
on  the  floor  by  the  table.  At  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room  is  a  wash-stand ;  and  near  it  are  a  mirror,  a 
large  deal-box,  and  a  chair  on  which  is  the  suit  of 
silk  worn  by  Chatterton  in  Marylebone  Gardens. 
On  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  the  moonlight  is  stream- 
ing over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  into  the  room;  and 
Mrs.  Angell  and  her  two  children,  Harry  and 
Bertha,  are  discovered.  Mrs.  Angell  is  sweeping, 
Harry  is  brandishing  the  poet's  sword,  and  Bertha 
is  scrawling  with  a  quill  at  the  table.  It  is  the 
night  of  August  24th,  1770. 

166 


/Bars  IRe&clffte.-  [actv. 


Watchman.     \From   the  street. .]      Past  nine  o'clock 
and  a  moonlit  night !     Past  nine  o'clock  and  a 
moonlit  night ! 
Mrs.  Angell.  Be  careful,  or  you'll  overturn  the  ink 
And  blot  his  poems  ! 

Harry.  What  are  poems,  mother? 

Mrs.  Angell.  They  are  like  hymns  :  at  least  the  lines 
begin 
With  capitals ;  and  those  who  write  them  starve. 
Bertha.  I'll  write  a  hymn. 
Mrs.  Angell.    Give  me  that  sword  at  once. 
He  was  so  happy  when  he  showed  me  this, 
And  told  me  of  the  things  that  he  would  buy 
For  his  dear  mother  ;  but  the  boy  is  down  : 
They  never  should  have  let  him  go  from  home. 
Harry.   I'll  go  away  some  day. 
Bertha.  May  I  go,  too  ? 

Mrs.  Angell.  The  bed  has  not  been  used ;  and  all  he 
wrote 
Is  torn  in  pieces. 

[As  Mrs.  Angell  picks  up  the  bits  of  paper,  Harry 
goes  to  the  deal-box,  opens  it,  and  takes  out  several 
manuscripts. 
Enter  Chatterton,  who  stands  in  the  doorway. 
Harry.  Mother,  what  are  these  ? 

167 


act  v.]  Ubc  Baro  of 


Mrs.  Angell.  Put  them  away  !     Were  Chatterton  to 
come, 
He  would  be  as  furious  as  he  was  the  time 
Your  father  told  him  of  a  vacant  clerkship. 

Bertha,  I'll  tear  my  poem,  too.      [Tears  up  a  paper. 

Mrs.  Angell.    [Taking  the  pieces  out  of  her  hands, .] 

You  naughty  girl, 
You  have  destroyed  his  work  ! 

Bertha.  He  tears  them  up. 

Mrs.  Angell.  What  can  be  done  ? 

Chatterton.     \Coming  down.]      Do   not  reprove  the 
child : 
Her  little  fingers  are  at  school. 

Mrs.  Angell.    \In  alarm.']  O  sir  ! — 

Chatterton.  The  song  is  worthless. 

Mrs.  Angell.  As  you  were  not  in, 

I  came  to  sweep  the  room  ;  for  once  you  said 
That  poets  hated  brooms. 

Chatterton.  Uncleanly  beasts  ! — 

Did  any  letters  come  ? 

Mrs.  Angell.  No,  none  at  all. 

Chatterton.  And  no  one  called  ? 

Mrs.  Angell.  I  really  can  not  say ; 

For  I  was  not  at  home  this  afternoon. 

Chatterton.  I  trust  your  outing  was  a  pleasant  one. 
1 68 


/Carp  IRefccliffe*  [act  v. 

Mrs.  Angell.   You  should  have  seen  the  sunset,  sir, 
to-day 
From  Hampstead  Heath. 

Chatterton.  I  saw  a  sunset  once 

From  Penpole  Point  near  Bristol,  looking  'cross 
The  lowlands  and  the  Severn  into  Wales  : 
The  globe  descending  bulged  upon  a  peak, 
And,  to  my  fire-intoxicated  eyes, 
Became  a  golden  punch-bowl  for  the  gods  ; 
Then,  sinking  deeper,  made  the  verdant  hills 
Volcanoes  in  eruption. — Do  you  smoke? 

Mrs.  Angell.  Why,  what  a  question  ! 

Chatterton.  My  grandmother  smokes  ; 

My  pate  is  but  a  pipe  for  puffing  vapour  ; 
And  the  iridescent  token  in  the  cloud 
Has  faded  to  a  fog-bow. — Close  the  casement ! 

Mrs.  Angell.   You  are  three-quarters  famished :   for 
two  days 
You  have  not  tasted  food. 

Chatterton.  I  need  no  meat. 

Mrs.  Angell.    I'll  fetch  you  oysters— any  thing  you 
crave. 

Chatterton.  Tell  o'er  some  viands,  and  I'll  eat  your 
words. 
I  should  not  starve  when  I  bequeath  the  world 

169 


act  v.]  Ube  Barb  ot 


A  magic  board  where  centuries  will  feed 

Upon  the  fledgelings  of  my  brooding  brain, 

And  drink  the  Burgundy  within  these  veins. 

[Slaps  his  arm  fiercely. ] 

But  then  I  am  a  panther  with  a  spot 

That  wanes  and  waxes  with  the  fitful  moon, 

And  must  be  prodded  that  I  may  display 

My  jungle-nature. — Shut  out  the  moonlight ! — please. 

[Then  to  Bertha  as  Mrs.  Angell goes  to  the  window. ] 

Come,  sweetheart,  come. — Why  does  she  turn  away? 

Harry.  She  is  ashamed. 

Chatterton.  Ashamed  ?  ashamed  of  what  ? 

Harry.  Because  she  has  red  hair. 

Chatterton.  My  hair  is  red. 

We'll  put  our  heads  together,  and  make  a  torch 
To  warn  benighted  vessels  from  the  Gilstones. 
What  is  her  name  ? 

Harry.  Her  name  is  Bertha,  sir. 

Chatte7-ton.    Saint  Mary  ! — Come,  tiny  Bertha,  come 
to  me; 
You  must  not  be  afraid. 

Bertha.    [Going  to  him.~\     I'm  not  afraid. 

[  Chatterton  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  sits  down  by 
the  table. 

170 


fl>ar£  IRe&clfffe.  [act  v. 

Harry.  No  one  but  Mr.  Cross  has  hair  like  hers  ; 
And  that  makes  mother  angry. 

Mrs.  Angell.  Hold  your  tongue  ! 

Chatterton.  If  I  were  rich,  I'd  dower  you,  little  maid. 
[Fumbles  among  Ms  papers  a?id  selects  one.~\ 
Here  is  my  '  Clifton  '  :  keep  it  till  my  death ; 
They  will  bid  more  for  it  than  I  have  had 
In  all  my  life. — Your  hair  is  lovely,  dear  ; 
In  sunlight  it  will  glint  more  varied  hues 
Than  Cornish  heath  upon  Goonhilley  Downs. 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Bertha.  I  used  to  be  five  years, 

But  now  I'm  six. 

Chatterton.  When  were  you  five,  my  girl  ? 

Bertha.   A  long,  long  time  ago. 

Chatterton.  Young  years  are  long. 

Mrs.  Angell.  Come,  dears,  before  you  tire  the  gen- 
tleman. 

Chatterton.    Leave  them  with  me  :    I  dread    to  be 
alone ; 
And  children  cheer  me,  for  I  ne'er  was  child. 
I'll  learn  their  language  and  will  think  their  thoughts. 
What  shall  we  play,  my  love  ? 

Bertha.  Why,  any  thing. 

171 


act  v.]  Ube  3Bart>  of 


Chatterton.   Let  us  play  '  church. ' 

Harry.  I'll  be  the  rector,  then. 

Chatterton.  I'll  be  the  sexton,  and  inurn  the  dead. 
And  you'll  be  Mary — that's  the  church  itself. 

Mrs.  Angell.  And  I  ? 

Chatterton.  Will  be  the  churchyard  for  the  poor. 

\Thcn  glancing  round. ,] 
This  garret's  very  like  the  muniment  room 
In  Mary  Redcliffe's  porch. — At  Whitsuntide, 
When  the  Cathedral  bell  was  tolling  midnight, 
I  left  old  Rowley's  work  ;  and,  stealing  down 
Into  the  tomb-paved  chancel,  placed  six  lights 
Upon  the  altar,  and  then  knelt  and  prayed, 
With  mailed  spirits  and  their  beauteous  dames, 
The  haughty  rulers  of  a  thousand  years, 
Kneeling  about  me. 

Bertha.  I  don't  like  this  game. 

Chatterton.  You  will,  my  dear,  for  you  shall  light  the 
candles. 
[Takes  a  bundle  of  candles  from  a  drawer  in  the  table, .] 
Your  innocent  touch  will  turn  this  fat  to  wax, 
Or  Poverty  must  plead  for  dispensation. 
Light  this,  my  child.  \Bertha  lights  it  at  the  lamp."] 

I'll  stand  it  on  this  tome : 
There  must  be  one  above  and  two  below. 

172 


/Bars  IRe&clfffe.  [act  v. 

Another ;  and  another.  \_Bertha  lights  two  more  can- 
dles, and  Chatterton  places  them  so  as  to  form  a  tri- 
angle.'] Now  three  more. 

Harry.   Let  me  light  one. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  you  shall  blow  them  out. 

[Bertha  lights  three  candles,  and  Chatterton  forms  an- 
other triangle  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table."] 
The  hilt  of  this  bright  dagger  is  the  cross. 
[Sticks  a  dagger  upright  in  the  centre  of  the  table.] 
With  Mary  Redcliffe  lying  at  its  foot. 
[Places  a  miniature  near  the  blade  of  the  dagger.] 
Now  is  our  altar  perfect,  with  six  fires, 
The  number  of  perfection  ;  for  its  parts — 
Its  half,  its  third,  its  sixth — produce  itself: 
The  number  of  production  ;  in  six  days 
This  earth  was  made  and  man  must  labour  six, 
The  Hebrew  slave  six  years  obeyed  his  master. — 
Would  that  these  candles  were  of  wax  from  bees, 
The  cleanest  insects,  to  denote  pure  life, 
As  their  flames  symbolise  the  Light  of  lights, 
The  Beacon  for  the  world  ;  and  were  ablaze 
Upon  the  altar  of  my  soul  to-night, 
Where  rushes  dipped  in  tallow  flicker  low. — 
I  can  not  worship  blindly  in  the  dark  ! 

173 


act  v.]  Ube  Baro  of 


Mrs.  Angell.   Do  some  thing  else :  this  is  no  sport 

to  you. 
Bertha.  Let  us  play  '  mother. ' 
Chatterton.  I'll  be  grandfather,  dear. 

Enter  Captain  Francisco. 
Francisco.  The  door  was  open,  so  I  helped  myself. 
Chatterton.  [  Going  to  him  and  taking  his  hand.  ] 
You  are  most  welcome. — We  are  playing  games  : 
These  are  my  daughter  and  grandchildren,  sir. 

Francisco.   I  will  be  Uncle  Croesus  to  each  one. — 
Your  hand  is  feverish  and  your  face  is  haggard. 
What  is  the  matter  ?    Tell  your  uncle  all. 
Mrs.  Angell.   The  boy  is  starving,  sir. 
Chatterton.  No  more  of  that. 

Seven  days,  'tis  said,  a  mortal  can  exist 
Without  a  bite  of  food  :  five  more  are  left. 

Francisco.  Come  here,  my  chicks,  and  peck  at  yellow 
grain. 
[  Throws  a   handful  of  sovereigns  upon  the  floor,    and 
the  children  scramble  for  them.      Then  to  Chatter. 
ton~\ 
Your  mind  is  rare  and  gold  is  plentiful : 
No  more  of  starving,  lad. 

Bertha.  That  one  was  mine  ! 

174 


flDar£  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Francisco.   You  bantam  rooster,  you  should  scratch 
for  her. 
How  many  have  you  now  ? 

Harry.  One,  two,  three — six. 

Bertha.   And  I  have  only  three. 

Mrs.  Angell.  You  have  enough. 

Francisco.    [After  giving  three  more  coins  to  Bertha.'] 
Now  you  have  six.     What  will  you  do  with  them  ? 

Bertha.  I'll  buy  a  baby. 

Harry.  I  will  buy  a  sword. 

Francisco.   Most  aptly  spoke  according  to  the  sex. 
Now  mother  gets  the  cage  in  which  there  are 
A  few  goldfinches  left.      [Gives  a  purse  to  Mrs.  Angell. 

Mrs.  Angell.  You  are  too  kind. 

Francisco.   The  pleasure  of  the  gift  is  largely  mine  : 
I  am  your  debtor,  madam. 

Mrs.  Angell.  Come,  my  dears  ; 

The  gentlemen  must  wish  to  be  alone. 

Chatterton.  Will  you  not  kiss  me,  Bertha,  ere  you  go  ? 

Mrs.  Angell.    [To  Francisco, .]      God  bless  you,  sir. 

Francisco.  He  knows  my  life  too  well. 

Bertha.    [To  Chatterton  in  a  loud  whisper .] 
I  love  you  best. 

Francisco.  And  you  love  wisely,  dear. — 

Good  dreams  or  none,  sweet  sleep  and  joyous  waking. 

175 


act  v.]  Ube  !JBar&  ot 


Bertha.  Good-night. 

Chatterton.  Good-night. 

Harry.  I'll  race  you  down  the  stairs. 

\The  children  run  out  of  the  doorway  down  the  steps, 

and  are  heard  screaming  and  laughing  for  a  minute 

afterward.     Francisco  goes  with  Mrs.  Angell  to 

the  door. 

Mrs.  Angell.  Your  coming  is  a  blessing  to  us  all. 

Francisco.  May  it  prove  so. 

Chatterton.  Amen. 

Francisco.  Adieu. 

Mrs.  Angell.  \_As  she  leaves  the  room.~]     Good-bye. 

Francisco.    ^Turning  and  walking  back  to  the  table, ,] 
Oh,  that  a  squall-like  mood  should  wreck  a  life  ! 
What  you  are  suffering  I  have  suffered,  lad, 
Without  your  power.     You  know  not  what  that  means  : 
Why,  I  speak  Latin  and  can  only  steal. 
God's  death  !  let  us  be  frank,  nor  care  a  groat 
How  many  angels  can  a  footing  find 
Upon  a  needle's  point.     Do  not  reply  : 
Your  reason  is  unshipped  by  want,  my  boy, 
And  gusty  words  will  blow  you  on  Hellweathers. 
Let  me  do  all  the  storming;  and  I'll  swear 
Like  some  old  sea-dog  with  a  salted  soul ; 
Not  at  you,  lad,  but  with  you. 

176 


flDars  1Ret>cliffe.  [act  v. 

Chatterton.  Bless  you,  sir. 

Francisco.  A  poet  starving  ! — by  chameleon's  liver 
Drenched  with  a  lapwing's  blood,  it  shall  not  be. 
There's  food  for  flesh  and  there  is  food  for  fancy. 

[Gives  a  purse  and  a  bracelet  to  Chatterton, 

Chatterton.  That's  Walpole's  purse  !  and  that  is — 
pray,  continue. 

Francisco.  You  are  in  need  ? — why,  you  shall  mount 
to  fame. 
On  gold  and  silver  rungs,  and  at  a  sneeze 
Shall  spit  into  the  mouth  of  every  toad 
That  climbs  upon  a  tree.     Your  pride  is  great  ? — 
You  give  to  me  more  than  I  can  bestow  : 
A  goal  ahead,  which  I  have  never  had 
Since  I  at  college  took  a  double-first, 
And  learned  that  learning  is  not  power  to  do 
High  Aspiration's  bidding.     It  is  nard 
To  find  your  mind  is  but  a  levant  sponge — 
To  be  a  disappointment  to  yourself. 

Chatterton.  You  are  unjust  to  self. 

Francisco.  I  am  unjust : 

My  mission's  greater  than  I  dreamed  it  was. 
Enter  Mrs.  Angell. 

Mrs.  Angell.  A  gentleman  is  coming  up  the  stairs. 

12  177 


act  v.]  XTbe  3Baro  of 


Chatterton.  It  must  be  Walpole :  you  have  brought  me 
luck! 
He  said  that  he  would  call. 

Francisco.  I'll  walk  apart. 

\_Goes  to  the  window  and  stands  with  his  back  to 
the  others. 

Enter  Horace  Walpole. 
Chatterton.   Good  evening,  sir ;  your  coming  is  most 
kind. 
[Then  to  Mrs.  Angell.~\ 
You  need  not  wait :  I'll  tend  him  down  the  steps. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Angell. 
Walpole.  It  is  less  hazardous  to  mount  those  steps 
Than  to  ascend  Fraud's  ladder. 

Chatterton.  You  should  know. 

Walpole.   A  suzerain's  banter,  truly,  from  a  serf; 
For  though  I  value  not  my  lustrous  birth, 
Which  has  been  more  a  hindrance  than  a  help — 

Francisco.    [Coming  down  with  a  black  mask  covering 
the  upper  part  of  his  face. .]      You  are  a  most  insuf- 
ferable coxcomb. 
Walpole.    [Starting  up."]     How  dare  you — oh  ! 
Francisco.  That  '  oh '  expresses  more 

Than   any   page   you've    penned.      You    should    not 
pale, 

178 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Nor  palm  that  spinel  ruby  in  your  frill : 
This  roof  is  sacred  and  my  promise  whole. 

Walpole.  What  do  you  wish  ? 

Francisco.  To  barter  words  with  you. 

Walpole.    My  talk  is  only  prattle. 

Francisco.  Lucian  wrote 

Of  some  Egyptian  temple  near  the  Nile, 
Painted  and  gemmed  to  shrine  a  jabbering  ape 
That  barked  to  mark  the  hours. — Do  you  tell  time? 

Walpole.  You  are — what  you  must  own  yourself  to  be. 

Francisco.    There  Pride  and  Prudence  claimed  the 
right  of  way, 
And  Pride  went  to  the  gutter. 

Walpole.  You  are  so  clever. 

Francisco.   As  we  accept  offensive  facts  as  fun, 
Truth  is  a  well  of  wit,  whose  waters  pass 
Those  of  the  '  Dog  and  Duck.' 

Walpole.    [Sarcastically.']  I  am  o'ermatched. 

Francisco.   Nay,  we  are  equals,  take  us  all  in  all. 

Walpole.   'Twould  make  me  vain  to  think  so  ;  really, 
sir. 

Francisco.  You  have  forebears  of  caste  and  so  have  I ; 
You  drink  iced  water  and  I  quaff  no  wine  ; 
I  have  a  mistress,  you  have  Kitty  Clive, 
And  Rumour  says  a  girl  named  Burgum,  too. 

179 


act  v.]  Ube  Bart)  of 


Chatterton.   Then  Rumour  lies  !     She  is  as  pure  as 
Love 
Before  the  fall  of  man. 

Francisco.  I  am  at  fault ; 

And  on  remorseful  knee  I  ask  indulgence ; 
[Sinks  upon  one  knee  and  rises  quickly,~\ 
For  Rumour  is  as  slanderously  chaste 
As  wanton  saved  by  marriage  from  worse  lot. 
But  Horry  ceded  Cliveden  to  his  Kitty. 

Walpole.  You  are  but  quibbling ;  come  now  to  the 
pith. 

Francisco.   I  borrow  sparklers  and  make  no  return, 
And  taking  without  giving  is  a  theft. 
You  have  three  patent  places  in  your  gripe  ; 
You  are  the  Usher  of  the  Exchequer,  sir, 
Comptroller  of  the  Pipe,  and  Clerk  of  the  Estreats  ; 
And  calmly  purse  four  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
For  which  the  service  rendered  is  mere  form. 
I  rob  the  rich,  you  rob  the  rich  and  poor ; 
I  am  an  outlaw,  but  we  both  are  thieves. 
Between  us,  sir,  there  is  not  much  for  choice. 

Walpole.  I  will  not  wrangle  with  a  stultus  pravus. 

Francisco.  Fortuna  nimium  quern  fovet  stultum  facit ; 
And  Fortune  favours  you  beyond  desert, 
Like  some  fond  mother  with  a  foolish  child ; 

i  So 


/Bars  IRetelfffe.  [act  v. 

For  breathing  earns  you  luxury  and  fame. 

But  if  you  are  learned  and  I  am  ignorant, 

Recall  two  proverbs  centuries  apart : 

A  Greek  says  *' 'AriaOia  dpdaoc;  qlozif 

And  some  provincial  Gaul,  in  musty  voice, 

Cries  '  Ignorance  ne  quiert  pas  prudence  !  ' 

Wherefore  a  modern  gives  this  sage  advice, 

'  II  ne  faut  jamais  affronter  un  sot. ' 

Shall  we  dispute  in  Spanish  or  in  German? 

God  save  us  all,  sir,  from  our  mother  tongue  ! 

Walpole.  You  are,  forsooth,  a  most  amusing  fellow. 

Francisco.     A  Fellow  once  of  Balliol. 

Walpole.  Oh,  indeed  ! 

Francisco.  You  must  not  patronise  me  with  a  drawl, 
Lest  we  should  meet  at  midnight  on  the  road. 
You  well  may  startle  ;  stranger  things  have  happed. — 
You  have  some  dealing  with  this  gifted  boy, 
Who,  with  mere  English,  overtops  us  both  : 
Be  square  or  you  shall  rue  it,  sir. — Good-night. 

[Exit  Francisco. 

Ink  Man.    [From  the  street. .] 
Come  buy  my  writing  ink  !     Fine  writing  ink  ! 

[Sings.] 

My  ink  is  good,  as  black  as  jet, 
'Tis  used  by  princes  and  their  set ; 
181 


act  v.]  Ube  3Bar&  ot 


If  once  you  venture  it  to  try, 

Of  this  I'm  sure — none  else  you'll  buy. 

Come  buy  my  writing  ink  !     Fine  writing  ink  ! 

Walpole.    \After  hearing  a  door  below  close, .] 
Boon  company,  a  cut-throat  and  a  sharper. 

Chatterton.  I  beg  of  you  do  not  provoke  me,  sir. 
You  find  me  in  a  mood  remote  before  : 
Reluctant  for  a  fray,  but  dangerous. 

Walpole.  Were  not  the  Rowley  poems  forged  by  you? 

Chatterton.   I  plead  '  not  guilty. ' 

Walpole.  Why,  you  so  confessed  ; 

And  Gray  and  Mason  date  the  verse  as  late. 

Chatterton.   In  my  brief  study  of  the  law,  I  gleaned 
That  forgery  is  a  writing  made  or  marred 
Against  another's  right.     Whose  right  is  crossed 
If,  as  a  monk,  I  elfin  grants  engross  ? 
The  crime  is  in  your  diction  not  my  deed : 
You  seek  to  damn  me  with  a  word  misused. 

Walpole.  Your  craft  might  lead  to  sembling  notes  of 
hand. 

Chatterton.  Go  punish  might-bes  and  the  Pope  will 
hang. 
You  wrote  'The  Castle  of  Otranto,'  sir, 
And  in  the  preface  solemnly  declared 
That  in  the  north  of  England  it  was  found, 

18a 


/IDars  IRefccliffe,  [act  v. 

Translated  from  black-letter  of  Muralto 
By  William  Marshal ;  all  of  which  is  feigned. 
You  donned  a  domino  to  shirk  the  world  ; 
I  wore  a  cowl  lest  it  should  pass  me  by. 
Perhaps,  in  realm  ideal,  both  would  swing 
For  masquerading  in  the  fane  of  Truth  ; 
But  we  are  on  the  earth,  where  life  at  best 
Must  be  a  compromise  or  martyrdom. — 
If  you  come  here  in  fairness,  welcome,  sir  ; 
If  fixed  in  bias,  better  to  depart. 

Walpole.  I  will  depart  when  going  gladdens  me. 
You  can  not  play  Francisco  with  me,  boy  : 
Although  I  might  mistake  you  for  his  son, 
Did  I  not  know  your  father's  wild  career. 

Chatterton.  You'll  drive  me  into  Billingsgate  or  Bed- 
lam. 
My  father  was  a  man  of  noble  parts, 
Perchance  a  genius,  pressed  by  low  estate 
To  see  that  children  came  clean-washed  to  school, 
And  bear  the  fool-dominion  of  a  board. 
Small  wonder  he  found  solace  in  the  cup, 
And  wandered  on  the  Avon's  bank  at  night 
Shaking  his  frenzied  fists  at  all  the  stars 
In  impotent  defiance. 

Walpole.  Your  mother,  too — 


act  v.]  xrbe  J3ar&  ot 


Chatterton.   She  has  a  limitation  in  some  things, 
But  not  in  love.     Speak  not  her  name  again  : 
I  would  protect  you  while  I  have  the  power. 

Walpole.  She  may  be  milky  but  she  is  low-bred. 

Chatterton.  You've  loosed  a  wild-cat  on  your  family 
tree  ! 
Your  own  reputed  father  was  a  beast — 
A  bull  in  office  brought  down  by  the  nose. 

Walpole.  How  dare  you  say  '  reputed '  ? 

Chatterton.  You  shall  hear : 

Years  after  your  last  brother  you  were  born. 

Walpole.    What    if    there   were    eleven   years    be- 
tween us  ? 

Chatterton.  It  is  one  candle  :  I  will  melt  five  more. 
No  human  beings  less  resemblance  show 
Than  you  and  Robert  Walpole. 

Walpole.  God  of  heaven  ! 

Chatterton.   His  bulky  form,  his  comely  face — 

Walpole.  Enough ! 

Chatterton.  You  have  Lord  Hervey's  lineaments  and 
frame, 
His  trick  in  writing  and  his  smirking  grace. — 
Three  candles  lighted  in  as  many  lines. 

Walpole.    [Starting  toward  the  door.~\ 
I  will  not  listen  to  this  infamous  charge. 
184 


/Ears  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Chatterton.     [Seizing  the  sword  and  running  to  the 
doorway.] 
Approach  this  door,  and  I  will  turn  a  leech 
And  test  whose  brat  you  are. 

Walpole.  You  are  insane  ! 

Chatterton.   Sir  Robert  and  his  lady  were  estranged. 

Walpole,  It  is  a  lie  ! 

Chatterton.  Throughout  your  infancy, 

Your  father  treated  you  with  tart  neglect ; 
And  till  at  Eton  you  upheld  his  name, 
Could  not  endure  your  cuckoldising  face. 

Walpole.   "lis  fell  as  night ! 

Chatterton.  I  have  another  dip. 

You  bear  the  birth-marks  of  a  love-child,  sir : 
Fastidious,  boorish  ;  artificial,  frank  ; 
Broad  and  despotic ;  generous  and  mean  ; 
With  potent  talents  in  a  petty  mind. 
The  last  of  the  six  candles  is  aflame  : 
Your  father  is  not  Walpole  but  Lord  Carr, 
The  eldest  son  of  Hervey,  Earl  of  Bristol ! 

Walpole.   Oh,  for  a  sword  ! 

Chatterton.    [Throwing  the  sword  to  Walpole. ~\ 

A  fairy  heard  your  cry. 

Walpole.    [Picking  up  the  sword  eagerly .] 
Now  I  will  pierce  your  heart  as  you  pierced  mine. 

i85 


act  v.]  Ube  Bar&  of 


\Chatterton  bursts  into  a  wild  laugh .] 
With  words  not  weapons. 

Chatterton.  They  must  needs  be  sharp. 

Walpole.   Sharper  and  shorter  than  a  hunting-knife. 
You  heard  Francisco  speak  of  one  you  love  : 
He  spoke  the  truth,  for  she  at  last  did  yield. 

Chatterton.  You  bastard  ! 

Walpole.  Tush  !  that  dart  has  spent  its  force. 

She  hugged  the  priestly  poet  and  repulsed 
The  vagrant  passion  of  the  beggar-boy. 
That  brought  a  sigh  ;  could  you  not  spill  a  tear  ? 

Chatterton.  I'll  not  believe  your  spite. 

Walpole.  You  shall  have  proof. 

You  flared  six  candles ;  I  will  flash  a  score 
To  show  that  Horace — Hervey,  if  you  please, — 
Unhorsed  old  Rowley  in  the  lists  of  iove, 
And  wears  the  lady's  favour. 

Chatterton.  You  married  her  ? 

Walpole.    \With  mocking  laughter. .] 
I  could  not  so  corrupt  my  Hervey  blood. 
You  may  espouse  her  in  a  year  or  two  ; 
For  matrons  can  not  be  so  nice  as  maids. 
And  she  looks  kindly  on  you — pities  you. 

Chatterton.  Spout  not  of  pity :  we  are  in  the  lists  ; 
No  quarter  given  and  no  quarter  asked. 
186 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Walpole.   'Twould  melt  Tintagel's  rock  to  hear  her 
plead 
For  me  to  aid  you,  with  her  naked  arms 
Entrailing  me  like  sprays  of  rambling  rose ; 
Her  eyes  half-closed  and  swimming  in  their  light ; 
Her  redolent  tresses  willowing  her  breast — 
But  you  turn  white  and  tremble. 

Chatter  ton.  Spare  me  not, 

Lest  in  my  soul  one  spark  of  mercy  glow. 

Walpole.  In  faith,  her  lips  undo  their  suasion  quite  ; 
For  with  their  moistening  pressure  they  remove 
From  memory's  page  the  pledge  their  music  won  : 
Else  had  I  called  before. 

Chatterton.  Have  you  said  all  ? 

Walpole.   Nay,  I  could  clasp  the  fanciful  a  week 
And  never  weary,  were  she  o'er  the  seas  ; 
But  dwelling  here  in  London  at  my  house, 
I  can  embrace  the  real ;   so  take  my  leave. 
[^Chatterton  closes  the  door  hurriedly,  locks  it,  puts  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  and,  taking  off  his  coat,  throws  it 
upon  the  floor,  zvhile  Walpole  looks  at  him  in  alarm.  ] 
What  do  you  purpose  ? 

Chatterton.  Not  to  boggle,  sir  ; 

Now  weapons  and  not  words. 

Walpole.  Give  me  that  key  ! 

187 


act  v.]  Ubc  3Baro  of 


Chatterton.    [  Going  to  the  table  and  wrenching  out  the 
dagger.] 
'Tis  fitting  that  the  cross  should  bear  you  down : 
If  what  you  say  is  true,  you  fouled  an  angel ; 
If  it  is  false,  you  vilely  slander  one. 
For  either,  it  is  death. 

Walpole.  Beware  your  life  ; 

If  you  rush  on  me  I  will  run  you  through  ! 

Chatterton.   Miss  not  my  heart  the  width  of  that  keen 
blade, 
Or  you  are  lost  past  praying. — Are  you  ready? 

[Loud  knocking  on  the  door. 
Walpole.    Break   down   the   door !    help !    murder, 
murder,  help  ! 

[Chatterton   runs  toward  Walpole  who  slips  past 
him.    The  door  is  burst  open,  the  lock  falling  with 
a  crash,  and  Burgum,  Mrs.  Angell,  and  Bertha 
Burgum  rush  between  them. 
Burgum.   Hold  ! 

Mrs.  Angell.         Mr.  Chatterton  ! 
Bertha.  For  my  sake,  hold  ! 

Burgum.  What  does  this  mean  ? 
Walpole.  He  strove  to  murder  me. 

Chatterton.   In  Clifton  once  they  paid  for  killing  fox, 
Hedgehog,  or  polecat ;  and  you  are  all  three. 

1 88 


/IDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Bertha.   Give  up  the  dagger. 

Chatterton.  Nay,  it  is  the  cross, 

Which  rests  in  peace-time  on  the  altar  here. 

{Goes  to  the  table  and  fixes  the  dagger  in  it. 

Walpole.   He  is  stark  mad. 

Chatterton.  I  am  unweaponed  now. 

Bertha.   How  did  this  quarrel  rise  ? 

Walpole.  I  told  him  all. 

Bertha.  You  should  have  kept  part  secret. 

Chatterton,    {Ironic  ally. ~\  Lack-a-day  ! 

Walpole.  Nor  did  I  gloss  the  nature  of  my  suit, 
Which,  to  untempted  Impotence  or  Age, 
Is  e'er  a  crime  past  clergy ;  that  I  came, 
Upon  your  hint,  to  minister  to  his  muse, 
As  kind  of  penance  for  my  amorous  course. 
At  which,  with  jealous  rage,  he  locked  the  door, 
And  would  have  slain  me  had  you  not  appeared. 

Bertha.   'Tis  not  astounding  that  it  angered  him. 
{Then  to  Chatterton.] 
Do  not  endeavour  to  avenge  the  wrong : 
I  have  forgiven  him. 

Burgnm.  Avenge  what  wrong  ? 

Walpole.    I   will    inform    you    as   we    ride   toward 
home. 

Chatterton.    {To  Bertha'].     Came  he  from  you? 
189 


act  v.]  XTbe  ffiar&  of 


Bertha.  He  came  at  my  request 

Made  in  rash  moment,  for  I  pitied  you. 

Chatterton.   His  very  words  !     Condone  my  rashness, 
lady  : 
I  am  an  errant  of  the  chivalrous  past, 
A  knight  in  pantaloons — with  broken  lance. 
[Then  turning  to  Burgum.~\ 
Proceed  to  business  and  have  done  with  else  : 
What  loadstone  have  I  here  ? 

Burgum.  You  brazen  rogue, 

The  Heralds'  College  disallows  my  Arms  : 
The  Pedigree  is  stuff !     What  say  you,  boy  ? 

Bertha.  Wait  till  to-morrow,  father. 

Burgum.  Not  a  breath. 

Walpole.   He  is  so  youthful,  we  must  not  be  harsh. 

Chatterton.    [Turning to  Walpole. ~\ 
Open  your  jaws  except  to  curse  me,  sir, 
And  I  will  speed  you  to  that  cirque  where  bawds 
Are  lapped  in  warring  blasts. 

Burgum.  Your  answer  now. 

Chatterton.  E'en  in  this  fevered  wilderment  of  mind, 
The  strong  excuse  that  rises  eloquent 
Shall  be  o'erruled  :  I  plead  for  clemency. 

Burgum.    Will    that    restore    to    me    my   Norman 
sires  ? 

190 


ZlDars  IRefcclitte.  [act  v. 

Chatterton.  Born  on  this  merry  Isle,  you  have  enough 
With  English  birth  and  birthright. 

Burgum.  I'll  have  revenge  ! 

Chatterton.   Revenge  is  yours  beyond  your  direst  wish, 
For  I  am  suffering  more  than  you  can  feel ; 
But  if  you  deem  that  punishment  too  slight, 
There  is  a  poniard,  and  my  soul's  unarmed. 

Burgum.   I  will  proclaim  your  perfidy  abroad, 
That  you  may  straggle,  like  a  branded  Cain, 
Without  a  friend  on  earth. 

Chatterton.  I  have  a  friend 

Who  would  do  more  for  me  than  for  himself ; 
Whose  gentle  nature,  like  St.  Andrew's  Spring, 
Pours  forth  a  never-failing  flood  of  love, 
To  nourish  flowers  or  bathe  the  dusty  streets ; 
Murmuring  at  times,  but  ever  sweet  and  low. 
He  stands  like  Tor  Hill  on  the  plain  of  Wells ; 
Go  move  him  if  you  can. 

Burgum.  Who  is  he,  pray? 

Chatterton.   His  name  is  Thomas  Phillips. 

Burgum.    [Chuckling  brutally. ~\  He  is  dead. 

Chatterton.  That  lie  makes  you  my  debtor  ! 

Burgum.  It  is  the  truth  : 

George  Catcott  wrote  me  that  Tom  Phillips  died 
From  cold  he  caught  in  London. 

191 


act  v.]  Ubc  JBarfc  ot 


Chatterton.  O  my  God  !— 

You  are  too  cruel  had  I  killed  your  son. 
If  you  say  this  to  crush  my  spirit  down, 
See,  I  am  humbled,  all  my  pride  is  gone. 
Tell  me  he  lives. 

Bertha.  Alas  !  your  friend  is  dead. 

Chatterton.  Then  God  has  been  dethroned  ! — Leave 
me  alone  : 
My  grief  is  kingly  and  must  not  be  seen. 
[Chatterton  stands  like  a  statue,  the  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks,  till  the  others  have  gone  down  the  stairs; 
then  he  goes  to  the  door,  closes  it,  and  sinks  sobbing 
upon  his  knees,  his  hands  clinging  to  the  frame. ,] 
O  Phillips,  Phillips  ! — Dear  Tom  Phillips  dead  ! 
And  Bertha  Burgum  Walpole's  paramour  ! 
Not  all  earth's  wealth  could  keep  me  on  it  now : 
Tell  father  I  am  coming,  dearest  friend. 
[Rises  and  goes  toward  the  table  but  stops.'] 
No  dagger :   I  will  not  profane  the  cross. 

Song  Man.    [From  the  street.  ] 
Songs  !     Songs  !     Songs  !     Beautiful  songs  ! 
Love  songs,  new  songs,  old  songs — all  for  a  penny  ! 
Chatterton.    The   price   is   up,   and   poets   now  can 
nibble 
At  hopes  and  biscuit  in  Tom's  Coffee  House. 

192 


flDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

That  minds  me  of  a  task  yet  unperformed. 

[Throws  his  coat  upon  the  bed  and  goes  to  the  deal  box.] 

I  must  be  swift  and  steady  in  the  work 

Of  murdering  my  babes. 

[Opens  the  box,  selects  a  manuscript,  and  reads. .] 

'A  Song  to^Ella.' 
That  will  repay  the  City  for  my  burial : 
I  shall  owe  London  nothing.      [Puts  it  aside.] 

Recall  her  fall ! 
[Tears  up  the  manuscripts. 

Song  Man.  [More  faintly  from  the  street.] 
Songs  !  Songs  !  Songs  !  Beautiful  songs  ! 
Love  songs,  new  songs,  old  songs — all  for  a  penny  ! 

Chatlerton.    [Rising.] 
Think  not,  my  children,  that  this  moves  me  not 
Because  my  eyes  are  dry  :  the  scalding  tears 
Are  dropping  on  my  heart ;  and  we  shall  meet 
Above  the  fateful  glimmer  of  the  stars. — 
I'll  comb  my  hair  :  my  exit  must  be  seemly. 
[Takes  up  a  candle  and  a  comb  and  goes  to  the  mirror.] 
If  it  be  sooth  that  hair  grows  in  the  grave, 
What  famous  locks  I'll  have.      [Combs  out  his  auburn 

hair  and  then  pauses.]  This  mirror  gleams 

A  crystal  lake  in  which  my  wraith  appears, 
With  Orkney  sea-weed  spread  upon  its  head, 
13  l93 


act  v.]  Ube  3Baro  of 


Foreshadowing  my  doom.     I  shall  not  live 

To  hold  a  candle  nightly  to  the  glass 

And  watch  my  face  grow  old  :  to  see  the  lines 

Deepen  to  ditches  round  the  eyes  and  mouth 

When  Time  besieges  Beauty  ;   to  make  that  fight, 

Which  must  be  lost,  against  the  first  gray  hairs — 

Plucking  them  out  lest  winged  Love  espy 

The  ghostly  vanguard  of  advancing  years. 

Nor  last,  with  taper  held  in  palsied  clutch, 

To  view  the  muddy  orbs,  the  lips  caved  in, 

The  visage  rutted,  as  if  a  thousand  cares, 

After  long  rains,  had  driven  their  heavy  wains, 

With  iron-bound  wheels,  across  the  features. — No  ! 

The  spirit  of  my  youth  shall  never  peer 

Through  Age's  hideous  mask.      [Leaves  the  mirror, .] 

You  fly  too  high 
For  sorrow ;  stoop,  my  Fancy,  lest  your  pitch 
Impugn  my  grief  and  lure  me  into  living. 
I'll  singe  your  wings  !      \Flashes  the  light  about,  stops 
suddenly,  and  laughs, .] 

Theatric  on  the  brink  ! 
Most  like,  in  maddening  moonlight,  Death  and  I 
Will  sit  upon  my  grave  and  forge  antiques. 
We'll  split  the  point  of  his  insatiate  dart, 
And  write  in  poets'  blood,  on  their  white  skulls, 

194 


/iDars  IRe&cltffe.  [act  v. 

The  songs  they  left  unsung.     'Twill  be  revenge 

To  make  of  hungry  Death  a  harmless  bard, 

With  nothing  but  a  pen  to  fill  his  maw. 

Death  being  dartless,  fools  will  multiply  : 

Each  foot  of  ground  will  have  its  occupant, 

And  then  they'll  stand  upon  each  other's  heads 

Until  the  topmost  clamber  into  heaven. — 

Lend  me  a  hand,  dear  Phillips ;  pull  me  up  ! 

[Extends  his  hand  heavenward,  and  then,  bursting  into 

tears,  brings  it  down  across  his  eyes.~\ 
There'll  be  a  horrid  screaming  in  the  morning. 
The  Coroner  and  jurymen  will  find  : 
'  Drank  opium  in  water,  Friday  night, 
The  twenty-fourth  of  August,  seventeen  seventy, 
At  Brooke  Street,  Holborn,  number  thirty-nine, 
T.  Chatterton,  about  eighteen — unknown.' 
The  shell  will  be  of  rough  boards  painted  black — 
The  heart,  perchance,  of  some  tall  singing  pine 
Besmirched  by  hands  like  those  that  felled  the  tree  ; 
And  Curiosity,  not  Love,  will  look 
The  last  time  on  my  face.     One  ghoul  may  say, 
As  I  am  borne  past  Shoe  Lane  Workhouse  wall, 
'The  boy  was  handsome  ;  pity  he  was  starved  ; 
And  yet,  well-fed,  he  would  have  galled  our  hands. 
We'll  take  what  London  pays  us  for  this  job, 

195 


act  v.]  XTbe  Barfc  ot 


And  at  the  Three  Crowns  drink  the  youngster's  health 

In  tankards  of  old  ale. — Quick  step,  my  lads  !  ' 

If  they  consign  me  to  the  common  pit, 

And  when  my  bones  disjoint,  my  skeleton 

Should  seek  a  missing  foot  or  this  dear  hand, 

How  those  old  skulls  will  grin  !     What's  that  to  me? 

No  wizard  word  can  conjure  up  from  hell 

A  fiend  more  dread  than  one  dissembling  friend 

Exulting  in  my  writhe.     Enough  of  both  ; 

I'll  see  how  Mors  looks  bottled. 

\Goes  to  the  bed,  takes  a  phial  from  his  coat,  and  comes 

down  holding  the  poison  before  his  eyes.] 

Were  Fancy  free 
To  finger  o'er  this  simple  cadence,  death, 
She'd  find  rich  harmonies  in  senseless  things, 
And  write  a  fugue  that  would  not  end  till  doomsday. 
Instead  of  that,  I'll  mull  some  Bristol  milk, 
The  brew  she  uses  when  she  weans  her  bards 
From  her  cold  breast — the  pap  she  fed  to  Savage. 
\Goes  to  the  washstand,  pours  water  into  a  glass,  and 

takes  the  glass  to  the  table, .] 
What  shape  will  issue  ?     Come,  Beelzebub  ! 
\JJncorks  the  phial  and  looks  round."] 
His  horns  stick  fast,  or  may  be  that  he  fears 
To  fright  me  from  my  purpose. — Well,  no  matter. 

196 


/iDarp  1Ret>cliffe.  [act  v. 


[Pours  the  opium  into  the  water. ,] 

The  bubbles  rise  :  quick,  quick  !  a  soul  is  drowning. 

[Stirs  the  poison  with  a  quill. .] 

I'll  push  it  back  as  I  immerse  a  fly 

To  shield  it  from  chill  weather.     [Knocking  on  the  door.~\ 

Who  is  that  ? 
It  may  be  Bertha — she  returned  before — 
And  I  may  see  her,  save  her,  ere  I  die  ! 

[  Goes  to  the  door,  opens  it,  and  starts  back  as  Mrs. 
Angell  enters  with  a  basket  on  her  arm. 
Mrs.   Angell.  Mr.   Francisco  brought    this  for  you, 

sir. 
Chatterton.   [Taking  the  basket  and  looking  into  //.] 
Tarts,  apple-fritters,  jelly  and  champagne. — 
I  have  no  relish  for  these  dainties,  madam  : 
Give  them  to  little  Bertha,  and  tell  the  child 
To  pray  for  me  to-night. 

Mrs.  Angell.  You  must  eat,  sir. 

Chatterton.   Well,  leave  them  by  the   table  on  the 

floor. 
Mrs.  Angell.  The  lady,  ere  she  left,  bade  me  supply 
Your  wants,  and  she — 

Chatterton.  Would  pay  with  Walpole's  gold! 

[Picks  up  IValpole'  s  purse  and  hurls  it  upon  the  floor. 
Enter  Bertha  Burgum  unseen. 
197 


act  v.]  trbe  Bart)  of 


Mrs.  Angell.  She  meant  not  to  distress  you.     Take 
some  wine. 

Chatterton.   \_Raising  the  glass  of  poison.] 
In  bitter  water,  a  more  fitting  draught 
For  Bedouin  lost  upon  the  desert  sands, 
I  drink  the  damsel's  health  !  [Drinks. 

Bertha.  Drink  now  to  me. 

Chatterton.    [  Turning  and  seeing  her.  ] 
The  toast  was  to  you,  lady. 

Bertha.  You  are  ill ! 

Chatterton.   I  pant  for  pleasure  in  a  wish  fulfilled. 

Bertha.   Dear  Mrs.  Angell,  we  must  be  alone  : 
There  is  a  secret  that  I  would  impart. 

Mrs.  Angell.  I  hope  that  it  is  cheering ;  for  the  boy 
Has  borne  enough. 

Bertha.  I  hope  so,  too. 

Mrs.  Angell.  Good-night. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Angell  as  he  puts  the  glass  on  the  washstand. 

Bertha.  Please  give  me  some  beginning  to  my  tale : 
'Tis  harder  to  own  folly  than  offence. 

Chatterton.  Speak  freely,  lady,  for  I  know  the  worst ; 
And,  needing  mercy,  I  am  merciful. 

Bertha.  One  thing  you  can  not  know. 

Chatterton.  Alas  !   I  do, 

And  love  you  madly  still. 

198 


flDars  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

Bertha.   \In  a  whisper. ,]     I  came  in  time. — 
How  could  I  be  so  foolish  ! 

Chatterton.  No  good  is  tardy  : 

Oh,  leave  him,  lady,  leave  a  life  of  shame  ; 
Where  love  is  lacking,  dalliance  is  foul. 

Bertha.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  ! 

Chatterton.  He  says  you  are — 

I  must  pronounce  it — are  his  paramour. 

Bertha.   He  tells  a  groundless  lie  ! 

Chatterton.    \With  a  wild  cry. ~\     Thank  God  !  thank 
God! 

Bertha.    He   made  proposals   that   were   met   with 
scorn  ; 
Professed  repentance  ;  begged  me  not  to  tell 
My  father,  or  to  quit  the  house  at  once, 
Lest  it  would  scandal  him  ;  asked  what  good  deed 
Lay  in  his  might  to  prove  reform  sincere  ; 
And  rashly  then  I  pointed  to  your  claim. 
I  have  his  letters  to  attest  the  truth  ; 
For  I  refused  to  encounter  him  alone. 

Chatterton.  Oh,  I  could  make  him  tread  with  naked 
feet 
On  plates  of  red-hot  iron,  marking  each  step 
With  strips  of  burning  flesh  ! 

Bertha.  You  are  o'erwrought. 

199 


act  v.]  zbe  JBaro  of 


Chatterton.  My  soul   for  one   short   hour ! — But  he 
shall  live 
Chained  to  my  corpse  for  aye  ! 

Bertha.  Be  calm  and  listen. 

I  took  a  separate  hack,  making  excuse 
That  he  must  speak  to  father  on  a  theme 
I  could  not  hear  discussed  ;  and  then  returned, 
Against  all  custom,  form,  and  girlish  pride, 
To  say  that  I — that  I  had  waked  to  love. 

Chatterton.  O  Mary  Redcliffe,  did  you  know  of  this, 
And  let  me  perish  ? 

Bertha.    [Sinking  upon  a  chair. ,]     You  will  despise 

me  now. 
Chatterton.  [Kneeling beside  her  and  taking  her  hands.  ] 
Despise  you,  Bertha  ?     O  my  love  !  my  love  ! 
No  saint  is  worshipped  as  I  worship  you ; 
And  I  am  half  a  spirit — half  removed 
From  fleshly  passion  now.      [Goes  to  the  table  and  takes 
from  the  drawer  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers. .] 

See,  I  have  kept 
The  lilacs  that  once  bloomed  upon  your  breast ; 
They  withered  though  I  watered  them  with  tears. 
Bertha.    [Rising.']     Forgive  me,  Tom. 
Chatterton.    [Taking  her  in  his  arms.]     You  are  my 
own  at  last ! 

200 


/H>ar£  IRefccIiffe.  [act  v. 

The  blossom  of  my  life  is  now  full-blown, 
And  its  leaves  are  rustling  in  the  autumn  wind. 

Bertha.   I  was  so  young  that  I  felt  very  old, 
And  you  seemed  but  a  child. 

Chatterton.  The  past  is  past ; 

The  present  makes  amend. 

Bertha.  The  future,  too  ; 

For  I  have  learned  that  Reverend  Dr.  Fry, 
The  head  of  St.  John's  College,  Oxford,  read 
Your  Rowley  poems,  and  is  coming  down 
To  greet  the  truest  poet  of  the  age. 

Chatterton.    To  die  when    Fame's  bronze  gates  are 
opening  wide, 
And  Love  is  walking  with  me  hand  in  hand  ! 
'Tis  well :   I  am  a  creature  born  of  fire, 
And  could  not  live  'mong  mortals. 

Bertha.  You  are  fagged, 

And  speak  so  strangely. 

Chatterton.  Happiness  is  strange  ; 

And  you  remember  I  was  ever  odd  : 
They  dubbed  me  '  The  Mad  Genius '  in  our  town. 

Bertha.  Your  vision  has  been  clouded  by  the  storm  ; 
All  will  be  sunlight  after  one  long  sleep. 

Chatterton.   If  I  should  die — 

Bertha.  Oh,  no  ! 

20I 


act  v.]  Ube  Bart)  of 


Chatterton.  But  if  I  should, 

For  frost  oft  kills  the  firstlings  in  the  spring, 
Console  my  mother  and  my  sister,  love  ; 
And  go  to  Mary  Redcliffe,  where  my  ghost 
Will  walk  the  pillared  aisles  on  moonlit  nights. — 
And  now  no  more  of  dying  or  of  death  : 
This  is  our  wedding-night. 

Bertha.  Our  wedding -night  ? 

Chatterton.  We'll  christen  it  'The  Marriage  of  Two 
Souls.' 
\He  passes  his  hand  over  his  brow  ;  for  the  voices  of  a 
choir  are  heard  singing  as  they  sang  in  the  muniment 
room,  but  more  faintly  j  for  they  are  sounding  in  his 
mind.~\ 
But  first  I  must  be  shriven  from  all  sin. 
Kneel  with  me  at  this  altar,  love,  and  say, 
'  Saint  Mary  Redcliffe,  pardon  Chatterton  ; 
For  my  sake,  pardon  him. '     Repeat  it,  dear. 
Bertha.    [Kneeling  beside  him.~\ 

*  Saint  Mary  Redcliffe,  pardon  Chatterton  ; 
For  my  sake,  pardon  him. ' 

Chatterton.    \As  they  rise."]     That  is  enough  ; 
For,  clearer  than  those  voices,  come  the  words, 

*  Forgive  him,  for  he  knew  not  what  he  did. ' 

Bertha.     What  voices,  Tom  ? 
202 


/Bars  TRefcclifte,  [act  v. 

Chatterton.    \Dreamingly  .~\      Do  you  not  hear  them  ? 

Bertha.  No. 

Chatterton.   My  father  sang  in  the  Cathedral  choir. 
[Nearly  swooning,  he  grasps  the  table  for  support.  ] 
Open  the  window,  dear,  the  air  is  close  ! 
[Then  as  she  goes  to  the  window  and  opens  it.~\ 
I  am  coming,  Mary  Redcliffe  ;  give  me  time 
To  bid  my  earthly  love  farewell. 

Bertha.    [Returning  anxiously  to  him.~\      O  Tom  ! 

Chatterton.    'Tis   nothing   but   sheer  weariness — no 
more  : 
You  know  how  hard  on  me  the  day  has  been. 

Bertha.  Then  I  must  go. 

Chatterton.  Yes,  dearest,  it  is  wise  : 

Love  can  not  beat  off  Slumber  with  his  wings. 

[A  distant  clock  begins  to  strike  the  hour. 

Bertha.  When  shall  I  come  again  ? 

Chatterton.  I  leave  here  soon. 

Meet  me,  dear  Bertha,  in  the  muniment  room — 
My  Uncle  Richard  will  give  you  the  key — 
Next  Friday  night  upon  the  stroke  of  ten  : 
The  hour  is  tolling  now. 

Bertha.  I'll  meet  you  there. 

Chatterton.  But  one  more  kiss,  my  love  !    [Strains  her 
to  his  breast  and  kisses  her.~\        And  fare-you-well. 
203 


act  v.]  trbe  J3aro  of 


Bertha.    [Going  to  the  doorway  and  turning?^ 
Good-night,  dear  Tom. 

Chatterton.    [  With  forced  cheerfulness.  ] 

You  see  how  strong  I  am  ! 
[As  Bertha  descends  the  stairs,  Chatterton  steals  to 
the  landing  and  leans  against  the  door-frame. 
Drunken  Woman.    [From  the  street,  singing  in  maud- 
lin tones  with  occasional  bursts  of  laughter. ,] 

I  put  my  hand  into  a  bush, 

I  pricked  my  finger  to  the  bone, 

I  saw  a  ship  sailing  along, 

I  thought  the  sweetest  flowers  to  find. 

Chatterton.    [Rushing  out  on  the  landing  and  calling 
wildly  as  the  door  below  closes  with  a  bang."] 
Bertha  !     Bertha  !     Bertha  ! — Die  here  alone, 
You  selfish  fool,  and  spare  her  all  you  can. 
[Re-enters  the  room."] 
The  gall  of  cuttle-fish  and  aloe  wood, 
Red  styrax  and  red  roses  have  been  burned — 
The  room  is  full  of  blood,  with  zigzag  lightning 
Flashing  before  my  eyes  !     I'll  kneel  and  pray. 
[As  he  kneels  before  the  table,  the  sounds  of  a  horn,  cf 
wheels,  and  of  St.   Werburgh?  s  song  are  heard  as 
they  were  heard  before,  and  he  rises  delirious.] 
204 


/IDarp  IRefccliffe.  [act  v. 

The  coach  ! — 

The  coach  is  coming  at  a  spanking  pace  ! 

Do  not  weep,  mother ;  it  is  for  the  best : 

You  and  fond  sister  shall  wear  silks  and  gems, 

And  ride  to  service  in  a  chaise-and-four. 

Fear  not  for  me  ;  my  courage  will  not  fail : 

Westminster  Abbey  shall  enclose  my  bones. 

[The  sounds  of  the  coach  cease. ~\ 

I  must  not  tarry,  for  the  coach  is  here. 

I've  taken  Bristol ;  now  for  London  Town  ! 

\_Goes  to  the  bed  and  sits  dmvn  upon  it  as  if  it  were  the 

basket  of  a  coach. ~\ 
Good-bye,  dear  mother,  sister,  Phillips,  too ; 
May  Mary  Redcliffe  bless  you — every  one. 

\_His  head  sinks  slowly  back  upon  the  pillow,  the 
singing  grows  fainter  and  fainter,  and  the  coach 
wheels  roll  away.      Then  all  sounds  cease  as  the 
hand  holding  the  faded  lilacs  falls  from  his  breast 
over  the  side  of  the  bed ;  and  he  lies,  as  if  asleep  in 
the  muniment  room,  dead  in  the  moonlight. 
Watchman.    \From  the  street. ]      Past  ten  o'clock  and 
all's  well !     Past  ten  o'clock  and  all's  well  !     Past 
ten  o'clock  and  all's  well  ! 
Curtain. 


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